


Locomotive Motion

by LenleG



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: "I mean who else come ON', "but without the murder or the mystery because we all know the Hood dunnit', All of them BROTP, Friendship, Gen, Hospital, Hurt! John, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, John and Penny BROTP, Mostly literally BROS, Poison, a true sign that Len's at it again, featuring lots of John being unconcious, has been described as 'like a murder mystery', penny and parker are practically family anyway right, sick!John, spoken like a true Alan Tracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2020-10-28 20:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20784947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenleG/pseuds/LenleG
Summary: Penelope and Parker have been asked by the GDF to deliver the Monataè Diamond, a dangerous artefact in its own right, back to its prestigious owner. Problem is, the gem is exactly the kind of thing The Hood would very much like to get his dirty bony fingers on. John Tracy, blissfully unaware of any of the subterfuge, is just trying to hitch a lift to an Astrophysics Lecture - recently down from orbit the last thing his space-wobbly system needs is exactly what he ends up getting. After all, The Hood has discovered that a little bit of poison goes a long way in getting what you want…





	1. Chapter One | Rhythm

John, if he’s perfectly honest, doesn’t really want to be here at all. He’s tired and space-worn and, if he takes the time to consider the sensation, actually sort of _ bored _. He’s worked his way through three holo-programs that needed re-coding, played a good fourteen games of auto-chess, and has manually gone through the latest telemetry readings, that Eos had relayed for him from his Thunderbird, no less than eight increasingly duller times. At this point, he’s well and truly run out of things to occupy himself with.

Having nothing to do is something wholly unfamiliar to John Tracy.

The Oxford AstroSci lecture on Laser Communication that he’s been personally asked to guest attend, all the way over in England, had better be worth it. John sighs heavily at the thought, his breath congealing on the cool glass of the train window he’d been staring blankly out of for the past twenty minutes. He spaceman lets his eyelids fall closed, sinking back in his seat and pinching at the pressure build up in the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. This is taking forever.

The only noise is the constant, droning hum of the train’s engines underneath him and, though the soft vibrations that travel up through his seat don’t bother him too much, there’s a constant awareness at the edge of John’s consciousness that they’re _there_. The regular _clack clack_ as the train passes over slightly uneven rails is the only thing that breaks up the monotony. _Clack clack. Clack clack._ _Clack clack._ The rhythm would send him to sleep, if only he could let it.

John is not the only passenger aboard the private, GDF funded train; the Lady Penelope, for one, has her own compartment down the corridor, along with a few other important officials. They’re all bound for England at high speed, but even these days it takes time to cross the globe. Three hours from Melbourne by plane, then five along the new European Interrail from Italy, then it’ll be two more before arriving in England via the Channel Tunnel.

It’d be much faster if you happened to have a Thunderbird to hand. _ Heh _. Landing One in the middle of the University grounds would hardly be subtle... but it’s nice to imagine. It’d sure save the monotony.

The monotony, John suspects, is exactly why Penny scheduled his presence on the train: to alleviate _ hers _ . It _ had _ been nice of Penny to schedule accompanying him into her timetable. After all, she didn’t _ have _ to work his flights to ensure that they would end up aboard together, just so that she could make sure that he wasn't travelling all that way alone. She’d even tweaked things so that they could have adjacent compartments. Penelope prefers travelling with companions and John does miss _ face-to-face human interaction _ during his stints out of the atmosphere, and so her working his lecture into her timetable to correspond with her return from the heat and luxury of Italy does seem very purposeful.

Everyone who knows John Tracy knows that he has always been happiest above the exosphere. Scott used to worry about him, drifting alone up in space. Big brother hadn’t been able to understand how it was that John could spend so little time around people and still be content. He’d worried that their astronaut had just been taking one for the team, isolating himself so that his brothers didn’t have to, but when he’d brought up his concerns with his father, Jeff had just smiled.

_ He’s not wired like you, Scotty, _ he’d said. _ You’re an extrovert and the way you feel happiest when you’re with lots of people is how John feels when he’s alone. He’s not lonely. He still gets to be with people, he calls, he visits - it’s just done on his own terms. _

And it's not like John doesn't enjoy Penny's company. She's a precious, trusted old friend and so he doesn’t mind her manipulating them together - after all, she’s been doing it since back when they had a _ seating plan _.

He only wishes he was being a better companion.

He’d been sat with her and Parker for the last few hours but John had developed the strains of a headache and apologetically retreated to his own compartment for a little peace and quiet. The kind that doesn’t involve exhausting politeness and Sherbet the pug gumming at his coat; leaving damp saliva trains on three hundred dollar mauve fabric. The morning aboard had smelt like spilt nail polish and a lack of sleep, and John had just felt too _ thin _for company.

The spaceman pulls his arms tighter around himself, as if he’s gotten chilled. Perhaps he shouldn't have stripped his now-soggy overcoat off. The mauve fabric is now neatly folded above him on top of his small case in the luggage rack. John isn't sure he has the energy to stand upright and get it.

He opens his eyes to gaze out at the dark blotchy blur of the snowy, mountainous landscape as it rushes past. His head tips forward; forehead pressing against the cold glass of the window, trying to ignore the ache that goes right down through his bones as the vibration of it shakes him. He closes his eyes again.

Gravity is always too heavy nowadays. He’s been down longer than thirty seven hours by now and still the effects of prolonged life in space have yet to leave him. Sore feet, achy head, poor immune system, nausea, vertigo. His arms are shaky with his reduced muscle mass and bone density. His heart feels weak.

Everything smells too much and tastes too much and the air he’s breathing feels literally thicker than the recycled, refined Nitrogen-Oxygen of his station. His eyeball-pressure-induced glasses have been discarded on the table - John had gotten sick of the feeling of them vibrating on his nose with the motion of the train. Everything just makes his headache worse.

There’s a _ bing _of the overhead speakers that, had John been more with it, would probably have made him jump. The door to his small compartment slides back to admit a thin, curved man in the GDF rail uniform; all starched navy blue lines and an empty, blank expression.

“John Tracy?” He checks, voice monotone and perhaps a little nasally, as if he has had a recent head cold (or, to the more aware, as if he is purposefully distorting the sound).

John looks up with a bit of a hopeless nod in response; his neck muscles making their complaint clear at the action. All he really wants now is to sleep, but as this attendant seems to have _ finally _ brought him the water he’d requested a good twenty minutes ago, John decides he’d better at least make the effort to drink it.

The glass gets set down from the tray onto John’s little desk, just to the left of his blank holo-laptop. The liquid inside it forms a tiny whirlpool with the movement.

“Thank you.” John says, hoarse around the heaviness of his tongue. The uniformed man shoots him a… _ peculiar _ look, pausing for just a moment before he takes his leave. The expression is a quirk of the corner of the server’s mouth, shadowed under the slim moustache that's sleeping flat along his top lip. Which is... _ strange _ ... John doesn’t recall the man having a moustache when he came to _ take _ the order, but the spaceman doesn’t really have the energy to ponder this for long.

It doesn’t click that something is amiss here.

The glass is cold under the astronaut’s fingers. Everything feels cold when he’s not covered by a temperature and pressure regulated space suit, but this is especially cold; condensation on the outside of the glass smearing under his digits. The liquid isn’t quite perfectly clear.

The headache throbs behind John’s eyes and raising his arm to drink takes far more effort than he’d have liked it to.

  
The crash of breaking glass and the choked lack of breath as the cyanide hits his system are much, _ much _ easier.


	2. Chapter Two | Rose Tea

There’s a sweet, unassumingly floral scent in the Lady Penelope’s compartment. She’d been placed strategically onboard to ensure the safety of both the First Class passengers (a selection of critical members of the EU parliamentary sector) and for the protection if a certain _ something _ that the Colonel Casey has personally requested she deliver. The _ Monataè _ Diamond, sealed in a deadlock case and hidden under the cushion of her seat, is more than just any sparkly jewel. To those informed of the precise method in which the pressurised carbon has been cut, it is also the key to the vault of an elite member of English nobility. A member who also happens to be one of the top arms dealers in the West and a major patron of the GDF...

The world’s most _ dangerous _ diamond. That’s for sure.

Though, Penelope thinks, just because she’s here to do a job doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the atmosphere. That's why she persuaded John aboard after all. For a little _ enjoyment _ . Her work isn't often dull but spending numerous hours on a train isn't at the top of her _ fun _list.

It's a shame he’d had to retire so early…

Still this train is of very high quality; all plush seating and soft window drapes embellished with gold. It’s slick and modern and yet has a Victorian-esque grandeur in its presentation. Parker is in the process of pouring her a delicate china teacup of calming, pink rose tea. It happens to be _ exactly _what she needed, although she never even asked. There’s a warmed robe from the train laundry and an assortment of small biscuits to go with the tea; her old friend is evidently on a mission to cheer her up.

Parker, always intuitive, must have sensed that she was worrying.

Penny has been sat, ankles neatly crossed, hands folded on her lap, spine beautifully straight; the picture of English aristocratic elegance, for the past twenty minutes. Only... there’s a little too much tension in the young woman’s shoulders and her teeth have caught just _ slightly _on her bottom lip in a way that told her oldest companion that something is most certainly amiss.

And it’s Parker’s job to fix the things that are amiss in Penelope’s life. Though her worry is understandable he also knows how resolute the source of her anxiety is. NASA makes tough astronauts. The boy is like his Father. Ol’ Nosey is sure he’ll be fine.

But Penelope has, after all, known John Tracy since he was eleven - their Fathers having always been close friends. They’d met when rising billionaire Jeff Tracy had first visited Lord Hubert Creighton Ward, asking for help with the top secret project that would eventually become the _ Thunderbirds _.

There’d been this lanky ginger _ boy _ perched half way up a ladder in the extensive Creighton Ward library, ogling _ her _ Father’s books, running his fingers fastidiously over the spines. She scolded him for having grubby fingers (though she’d come to know that John Tracy would _ never _ have such a thing) and for the way his mouth hung open. She called him _ gormless _. He’d just laughed, startled, and asked if the books were hers. If he could read some.

She’d never met a boy so interested in _ books _ before. 

It was… charming.

They’d bonded over caring for their younger siblings (Alex is as much trouble as Gordon and Alan combined) and the loss of their Mother’s and by the time he was taking a placement semester at her University, she’d been absolutely determined to be his friend.

She’d never met anyone as... curious as him before and really, she’s not truly met anyone _ quite _ like John Tracy since.

Yes, she knows all too well how the adjustment between space and Earth always leaves their John a little shaken but that evidently wasn’t going to stop her worrying or from feeling… perhaps a _ little _ guilty for asking him along so soon after re-entry.

The fact John Tracy had needed passage to Oxford had merely been a last minute addition to the trip, with the intention of helping out a friend.

But... he’d just _ looked _ a funny colour when he’d gone off for some peace and quiet. 

Penny’s fingers have been constantly, unbecomingly, crossing and uncrossing in her lap and Parker had stood with a gentle ‘_ Milady _ ’ and a smile to fetch things, _ tea naturally _, to distract her from the way John had been kind of grey and shaky as he’d softly, politely, made his excuses and left for the adjoining cabin. The quiet and rest should do him good though. Quiet and rest are known to work wonders.

“Perhaps I should check on him.” She worried, as Parker had returned with the tea set and… and a _ frown _ . “What ever is it Parker?” Penelope asks: smooth English and professional, her eyes sharp and focused on the little crease between the older man’s brows. She knows _ that _look. “Is it John?” Her breathing catches, “Do we have a situation?”

“Not as of yet, Milady.” Parker sets down her tea and casually arranges the little cups and saucers and the plate of rosewater biscuits. Sherbet is sniffing around his ankles and so Parker loops one hand under the little menace’s tummy, lifting him onto the seat beside Penelope and out of his way. “H’i just found it a little odd that the s’herver was so insistent on making your Rosy Lee ‘imself.”

_ Ah _ , Penny thinks, relaxing back into her seat and reaching out to stroke her fingers over her puppy’s fine fur, _ so those ruffled feathers are just you feeling displaced from your job. _ She eyes up the tea, one finely manicured little finger coming out to just touch against the bone china ceramic, testing if it will be too hot to drink. _ That is a little suspicious though _.

“I assume you reminded him of your station.” She says, rather put out by the idea that someone _ else _ could have made her tea. Propriety for one but she’d never trust anyone but trust old Nosey to not have tampered with it. Trusting no one keeps you safe. Even Gordon Tracy, the little cad, has handed her a bowl of salt instead of sugar and grinned wickedly as she spooned the crystals carefully into her cup. Sherbet snuffles at her hand, his damp tongue indicating he’s thoroughly enjoying her absentminded fuss.

“Of course, Milady.” Parker chuckles, sliding into his own seat when he’s finished fussing with the definately _ sugar _bowl, “H’I couldn’t serve you tea made by anyone but myself. Wouldn’t be proper.”

“Quite right.” She says, with a smile. It’s a little tense around the edges though, “Do you think we should perhaps look in on John?” She finally gives in to asking again, “He seemed rather unwell when he departed.”

“Mas’ter John is m’host likely sleepin’.” Her companion gently reminds her, sliding the plate of biscuits in a little closer, prompting Penelope to take one. “’E’s not been on this planet long you kn’hoe. Is h’important to realise how regularly he deals with this, Milady.” There’s a line of tension in those old shoulders too though, visible in the creases in his leather over-jacket. 

Penelope frowns, a biscuit half way to her mouth, as she studies him. There’s a moment's pause, Parker’s weathered hands resting on the lip of the table. His fingers start drumming. 

_ Making use of Jeff’s good old Morse Code, huh..? Who exactly does Parker think might be listening in on them? _

_ The server has a distinctive moustache. _ Parker taps out. _ Keep your eyes open. They could have wanted to put anything in that tea. John has been quiet. _

“I th’hink I will look in on ‘im, if it’h’ll put your mind at ease, Milady.” Parker definitely seems distracted. He keeps glancing at the cabin door. Sherbet takes advantage of the Lady’s distraction and there’s a small scuffle as he tries to snag the biscuit from her hand.

“No Bertie! Absolutely not! You have _ dog _ biscuits for a reason!”

_ Could be nothing. _ Parker taps out again, his fingers dexterous against the polished wood as Penelope scolds her pup and sets him back on the floor with a stern finger wag. _ Could be something. Stay with the Diamond. The Grey Ninja will run a recon. Back in five. If not, we probably have an issue. _

“If you could look in on John then Parker? It would reassure me greatly.” Penelope nods her thanks and permission before watching him stand; taking note of the little flick of his wrist that re-indicates her to stay here as he peers around their door frame.

She does hope her old friend is mistaken... but then Parker rarely is. He slides silently out into the corridor and the young woman is left alone with her dog and her concerns. Penny wonders if she should preemptively alert the GDF staff... or if they can no longer be trusted to have clean records. The _ clack clack _of the train on the track seems to fall into rhythm with her heartbeat. She tries to even out her breaths to it.

_ Clackity clack. Clackity clack. Clackity clack. Clackity clack. Clackity cl... _

She hears the cry of “_ Mas’ter John _ !” through the wall and surges to her feet in one fluid motion, panic suddenly squeezing a _ tight _ fist around her heart. Parker had told her to stay here but she’s three strides across the room and how could she _ possibly _when...

A figure appears in the doorway, blocking her way, and it’s not either of the men she’d have liked it to be.

Six foot two with flecked brown hair and the beginnings of a _ very _ ugly moustache, the plain navy serving uniform the man is wearing does nothing to disguise the dark, steely look in his yellowed eyes. Or the implications of the gun in his hand, pointed in her direction.

Sherbet begins a low growl, down by her feet_ . _

“The Lady _ Penelope _ .” And she would know _ that _ voice anywhere, distinctively as cold and thin as melting ice. The Hood isn’t even trying to be subtle now. He smiles at her with all the pleasantries and grace of a wild adder. “How simply _ charming _ it is to see you again, my dear.”

“Where is Parker?” She demands, a flick of her head sending golden blond hair tumbling down over her shoulder. She narrows her eyes at him, lipstick puckered, and gently tucks a high heeled foot in front of her little dog, shielding him as subtly as she can. Sherbet’s wet nose bumps against her ankle. He's trembling anxiously and a kind of righteousness anger begins to build in Penny's chest. Sherbert doesn’t understand what’s going on, but even the pug senses that something is _ very _ wrong here. The poor pup.

“Hmm, he's busy I imagine.” The Hood's reply sounds almost nonchalant. The fake moustache gets swept away with an arc of his hand, shattering the holographic display around his features. He keeps the hair though; just enough to fool the casual observer. “It seems your little friend Tracy is experiencing some... issues.”

“What have you _ done? _ ” The words come out as a hiss between her teeth. Penelope's heartbeat is clattering in her ears. The motion of the train on the rails makes her stance unsteady. “What do you _ want _?” Her fingers curl into fists.

“Of course, of course,” The Hood tilts his head, contemplative. “I _ was _ just here for that little _ trinket _ you’re keeping safe,” He takes a step toward her and Penelope has to physically prevent her urge to step back, “but _ my _ , _ my _ . Imagine my surprise when I found you accompanied by not only that old _ fool _ of yours, but tall ginger and _ handsome _ too.” There’s a crocodile smile, all thin lips and glinting teeth. “To think, _ finally _ I got to meet the most... elusive of those irritating Tracy brothers. What a _ pleasure _it was to find his name added to the guest list. I think I can guess why the poor dear doesn’t face Planet Earth very often though...”

“What have you _ done _ to him?” Penelope can’t blame the way her voice shakes on the movement of the train. She shudders despite herself: this man makes her feel like her skin is _ crawling _. Parker's gone silent on the other side of the wall and fear bubbles a septic pool somewhere within her midriff.

She feels a little nauseous.

“Where’s John?” It was Penny who had invited him on board. If something has happened to him then it’s _ her _ fault. If she’s put him in danger…

She takes a step forward, intent to pushing past this vile little man and finding her friend.

“Uh, ah, ah.” The Hood _ tsks _ a finger at her, wagging it from side to side. The hand holding the gun raises it level with the place where her heart flutters inside the cage of her breast. “I think not.”

Penelope is 5’3 and decked out in pretty pastel pinks but there’s a steely look in those big blue eyes, and she doesn’t back away from the threat.

“As satisfying as it was for this to be so easy, my dear, you ask too many questions. You see, this is how it’s going to work...” Bony fingers wrap themselves around her upper arm with a bruising strength and the Hood’s face draws close enough that it’s just inches from her own. The barrel of the gun is cold against her skin as he lays out his demands.

“You are going to accompany me through this train without disturbing any of those _ idiots _ the GDF likes to call guards and politicians. _ Understand _ ?” His breath is, contrastingly, uncomfortably hot against her cheek. The man’s expression has dropped as he looks down at her, his eyes shadowed and dark and his voice has dropped the pleasantries in exchange for a low, threatening growl. “Now, _ my dear _ , where are you keeping the _ Monataè _ Diamond?”

_ He doesn't know? _

Penelope tries to think fast, hoping that her realisation that the Hood doesn’t seem to be aware of the fact that she's been _ sat atop _ the Diamond the entire afternoon doesn’t show on her face. She needs to contact Parker to let him know what’s going on. Alert the GDF if she can. And perhaps if Penelope can lead him away from the real thing, she can also discover what he might have done to _ ... to... _

The young woman nods dumbly, a lump stuck in her throat. A hand signal commands her dog to _ stay. _

Sherbet whimpers.

“Fabulous.” The Hood's smile returns, “Absolutely _ fabulous _.”


	3. Chapter Three | Silhouette

There's a lack of response to Parker's customary three short raps on the cabin door.

It makes him pause. There's this odd, long moment of waiting as he stands there, puzzled. John isn't by any means a heavy sleeper; Parker has known the Tracy brothers since they were little enough to chase Penelope around the yard mindless of the mud on their faces and her skirts. He recalls that John always was a little less rough and tumble than his brothers. Quieter. Bookish. More aware of the world around him. It wouldn't take much more than a creaky board in the old Manor flooring to wake the boy at night and nowadays the young man has to be up and about in an instant if any of Thunderbird Five's alarms sound. So, no, John has _ never _ been a heavy sleeper.

But there's still been no reply.

Parker has got this _ unpleasant _ feeling. Sort of cold and prickly and... foreboding.

"Mar'ster Tracy?" A chill itches its way across the back of Parker's shoulders as he knocks again, hoping he's wrong. That the lad is just overtired after all.

He waits for the reply, but is rewarded with only silence…

Oh no, Old Aloysius has never known the boy to sleep through _ anything _. Let alone six loud knocks.

"Master J'hon?" It's with a feeling of dread that Parker slides the door open, and is greeted by the stillness within. He's almost hoping the lad has just gotten up to go somewhere else but… no.

_ No _.

There's a figure, silhouetted by a silvery disc of moonlight slumped with his forehead against the windowpane and both pale hands resting limply in his lap.

John's laptop screen is dark, his folder of lecture notes open on the desk, his glasses and pen discarded.

Broken glass _ crunches _ underfoot as Parker steps, dreamlike, into the compartment. His stomach feels like it's taking up residence in his throat as he traces the fractured shards to half a glass on the floor. It must have caught the edge of the table as it fell. As it was dropped. Water has pooled on the table and seeped into the carpet floor, forming a dark, sinister stain.

There's something more than a little usual space sickness here. Even in shadow, Parker can tell that's John's not moving. That his lips are a darkening shade of blue.

_ Oh no _ . _ No, no no… _

He intentionally doesn't call for Penelope. _ If John is… _ well then Aloysius would rather she not see. She doesn't need to see _ this _ . Not when it's _ him _.

With mounting dread, the older man kneels carefully but quickly at John's side. He rests a palm against a limp forearm and gives it a little shake; as if some part of him is still hoping the lad might just be sleeping. When there's no response, his weathered fingers slide a little reluctantly around a limp, cold wrist, pressing firmly but unexpectantly down on the arteries there.

The pulse is faint but quick; a fluttery, dangerous pitter-patter that spells out a lack of good oxygen circulation and Parker startles into action, his eyes wide.

"Oh bleedin' 'ell… _ Master John!? _ Can you 'ear me?" He asks, loudly and clearly, willful for any kind of response. "John?" Parker a hold of takes those slim shoulders and supports the boy's torso upright, wedging himself in behind his back - but there's no kind of reaction to him being moved other than the way John's head hangs limply toward his chest, ragdolling. He's out for the count.

Parker swears colourfully under his breath.

There's no sign of external injury, save for some reddened scrapes he finds on close inspection of the young man's fingers but he concludes these must have occurred when John had evidently dropped the glass that's broken on the floor. Listening closely, now John's been tilted forward, Parker notices that he's making these short, rapid little gasps for air that are just _ not right _ . The air wheezes up through his windpipe like he's a runner at full pelt who can't quite catch his breath, only Parker can _ feel _ there's not enough expansion in his lung cavity for this being excersise triggered and the breaths are weak and accompanied by a trembling jerk to the lad's chest with each sharp little inhalation. Tilting the young man, he notices a deep, unhealthy flush has spread across the capillaries in John's cheeks: the colour more like the purple of _ bruising _ than the warmth of fever.

"What the...?"

Parker's mind jolts straight to the problematic nature of space travel and its effect on the human body. Any number of things could be wrong; internal bleeding, a pressure puncture, barotrauma, organ failure… His knowledge hardly scratches the surface. If they need an expert in injuries obtained out of Orbit then Parker has no idea who to call if not John Tracy, and John Tracy right now is not going to be much help to himself at all.

"Oh 'eck Johnny..." Parker changes his grip on John's shoulders and tries to prevent him from falling forward as he tries to assess the lad's condition. He pulls the younger man back to rest against his own chest, reaching around to tip John's chin upward to encourage better airflow. To get more oxygen to those struggling lungs. John's head rests heavy and senseless back against Parker's shoulder and the older man is hyperaware of the way the soft, fine hairs at the spaceman's nape are tickling at his throat.

He's really just a child. _ Hell _.

Strong arms loop around a skinny waist and John's body gets manhandled out from behind the table. The lad is lucky that while Ol' Nosey might be ageing, the years of chasing around Penelope have been good for his muscles.

And it's not like John weighs nearly as much as he'd have expected a man of his height too. That's… also concerning.

"Now what's goin' on 'ere, lad?" Parker asks, more to himself than anyone. He rests a broad palm against the plane of John's thin chest, supporting him upright so that, for a moment longer, he can feel the uneven-but-reassuring throb of the young man's heart beneath his crisp, Oxford shirt.

Fears of needing to grab a de-fib dispelled, Parker gently lays the tall Tracy out along the length of the coach seat: hoping to regulate blood flow toward his heart and brain. He has to curl Johns legs to one side though so that he'll fit. Shrugging out of his faded leather jacket, Parker folds it once, twice, then carefully lifts the ginger head so that he can slide it beneath it as a pillow.

John doesn't seem to notice.

Each compartment along the train has a compulsory emergency first aid kit built into the state-of-the-art wall panelling and Parker wrenches the pack free with little care for the gilded aesthetics that he tears down in the process.

Working quickly, he decides that setting up an oxygen supply for that sketchy breathing comes first. With practised ease it takes little time to secure the plastic mask over the boy's nose and mouth and hook it up to the flow. One hand stays resting on John's chest: sentimentally, more than practically, but he's assessing each of the lad's unsteady breaths as he fumbles in the first aid kit for what he needs.

A standard issue biomonitor gets strapped to John's wrist, Parker fixing the anodes to his skin with medical tape. Without really thinking about it, old fingers sweep a line up the young man's smooth cheek from his jaw, resting fingertips idly at John's temple as he waits more than a little anxiously for the results. The boy is far too young for this. Far too young…

There's a low _ bleep _ as the monitor gives Parker a reading of low blood pressure, a fast heart rate, high blood lactate and some worryingly low oxygen levels. There's something flagging up from his blood work that the basic monitor can't pick out of the sample it's taken and that's... that's decidedly _ sinister _.

And that's what it takes for Parker to realise he _ knows _ these symptoms.

_ They'd wanted to make Penelope's tea _.

Oh _ Tom's tit. _

This isn't being caused by atmospheric pressure or the space wobbles. Creased old fingertips dip lightly into the spilt pool of water on the table and Parker runs his eyes over the shattered glass, examining. No, this isn't the first time the Grey Ninja has seen _ cyanide _ poisoning. Not by a long shot; not with his chequered past and youthful escapades behind him. After all, Parker has watched more than one man crunch down on a pill to avoid interrogation. Parker was poisoned himself back in '54. He knows what it can do to the body and he knows that the young Master Tracy doesn't deserve this at _ all _.

Aloysius stands in a fluid motion that barely betrays the deep-set ache in his bones. He's more than aware that a fatal dose of cyanide can be as low as 1.5 mg per kg of a person's body weight, and John Tracy is hardly on the _ bulky _ side at the moment. There's a lot of liquid seeped into the carpet though - Parker can only hope the boy hadn't been too thirsty…

With the lifestyle they cavort the older man, of course, keeps a range of vitamins and antitoxin injectors in his lucky kit bag for situations just like this. If John has only ingested a mild dose the fastest treatment Parker can give him while onboard will be a quick application of the otherwise innocuous Vitamin B12, Hydroxocobalamin.

B12 is a nifty little thing, he recalls from his earlier, more _ dubious _ life choices. It has an affinity for cyanide; it picks it up from the bloodstream and bonds to it, converting the harmful particles into cyano… uh, cyano- _ something-else _ . Parker doesn't quite remember all the terms but he does know that whatever it is stabilises the molecule and reduces the symptoms. It'd be a quick fix until they can get John to a proper hospital but, and it's the ' _ but' _ that Parker doesn't want to think about, if the lad's taken more than just a mouthful then… _ seizures, coma, cardiac arrest, and... _ and Parker looks down at the pale, lax face of the brave, selfless young man he's come to know over the years, and he doesn't want to consider that final ' _ and' _.

John Tracy isn't only valuable to his brothers.

His kit bag is back in Penelope's compartment and Parker knows that he can hardly keep this quiet from her. John Tracy needs an IV full of B12, a med team and a hospital: in that order and as fast as possible. If the officers on-board aren't all the ones who did this in the first place, he could really use some help.

Parker curses lowly under his breath, double-checking John's biomonitor and working on the difficult task of finding a suitable vein for fluids in the boy's thin arms. He'd _ known _ there was something suspicious about that Server. No one else decides to make the Lady Penelope tea. It's just not _ proper _.

Concern for Penny, who he's left all alone, nips at him. Setting up the intravenous line from the medkit doesn't take long despite John's tiny veins and soon enough he's got it taped securely and rigged with saline, the bag balanced on the parcel shelf above, starting to flush out John's bloodstream. This way he can add the B12 to the bag as soon as he's retrieved it.

It should help.

"'Old on Mar'ster Tracy." He instructs, sliding back the door with the intention of retrieving his lucky kit bag and getting Penelope to contact some kind of aid, "Elp is on the..."

Parker chokes on his words.


	4. Chapter Four | Necessaries

Parker chokes on his words. The door had slid back to reveal a man and woman in the corridor: a tall, skinny figure in a navy serving uniform is pressing the slim, silver barrel of a pistol to the Lady Penelope’s temple, manhandling her down the corridor. All three freeze at the sight of each other.

“Ah.” Cruel golden eyes widen at the sight of their interrupter and Penny makes a soft, surprised noise in the background. “We had estimated you would remain...  _ occupied _ for longer, Mister Parker.” The gun remains firmly pointed at the Lady. Parker’s hands make  _ fists _ .

It’s a relief that she doesn’t seem to be injured, in the least. Penelope’s expression reads as dangerously calm and collected - her hands neatly clasped and not a hair out of place. The curve of her mouth makes her seem only a little put out by the disruption to their journey.

Parker swallows hard.

She hasn’t seen the state of their John, but her eyebrows are pinched, her eyes worried. She’s evidently wondering why the young man isn’t right behind her loyal companion. It’s easy enough for him to read that she’s blaming herself for inviting John along without even warning her childhood friend of even the possibility of any danger.

“I would advise you against trying anything.” The Hood says; voice light but his lip curled in disgust. “Unless you would like the  _ lovely _ Penelope here to have a bullet lodged in the side of her pretty little head.” Penny  _ scowls _ at him for that, her teeth pressed hard together.

Parker, in an attempt to placate the megalomaniac, raises both hands either side of his head in the universal symbol of  _ I won’t try anything.  _ The pleased look the Hood gives him for this makes him all but nauseous. The thought of their John, prone and poisoned in the room behind him, only makes that feeling worse.

Dread. Helplessness. Fear.

_ What can he do? Think Aloysius, think... _

“Excellent.” The Hood’s trigger finger relaxes minutely. There’s a comfortable roll of his shoulders, enjoying the stretch and tension of the tendons. “Now, Penelope dearest,” He sounds satisfied, “I think your companion here best accompany us to the location of the Diamond. I can’t simply leave him here to  _ meddle _ . Of course, as promised, if you don’t take me straight there then you or, well, perhaps the meddling Mr Parker here  _ will _ be shot.” He’s still smiling benignly, even as Parker tenses obviously. “I only need one of you to show me where it is you know.”

Parker considers his options grimly. If John doesn’t get a dose of Vitamin B12 in the next five minutes or so... well then the lad’ll be lost further than even his Father is. Still, there are more lives at stake here than just the most imminent: if The Hood wants that diamond then he surely knows what it’s  _ for _ . He surely knows about the weapons vault it opens and the power the arms stored inside could hold against the GDF. There’s enough destructive force to take down a  _ Thunderbird _ in there, let alone a GDF freighter.

People are going to  _ die  _ if the Hood gets that stupid rock. There's no way John wouldn't want him to prevent that even at the risk of… 

Parker’s fists clench, his face like a thundercloud, dark and angry. He takes a square-shouldered step forward and Penny notices that shift. Her blue eyes go wide with surprise at the excessive aggression of the action.

“Parker what...?” And that’s when Penelope catches sight of John’s body, back behind Parker and the gasp of; “What have you  _ done? _ ” as she whirls on the man with the gun, is dark and several octaves lower than it should be. All but a  _ growl _ .

The Hood just smiles at her.

“E's been Pois’uned, Milady.” Parker places a cautious hand on Penny’s free arm, warning her against doing anything rash. Penelope has the tension of a rubber band, all tightly wound beside him - but you’d never know if you weren’t Parker, finely tuned as he is to his charge. “John needs an ‘ospital.”

“You… You  _ vile  _ little man.” She all but  _ explodes _ at the Hood, who takes the abuse disturbingly calmly. “You absolute filthy, abdocomist maniac… I. well  _ fine _ ,” She seethes, “I’ll make a deal with you.” Penelope flips her hair over her shoulder and her fingers bunch into fists, “You save him, you  _ help  _ him right now and... and I’ll give you the  _ real _ location of the Diamond.”

“Pen…” Parker's shock has him choking on her name. It might be  _ John _ but was she  _ really _ offering the Hood himself something so dangerous? Penelope is half Parker’s age but with an awareness of espionage to rival his own, he can only  _ hope _ she’s got some kind of plan for this and isn’t just winging it. "Milady, w’he _ can't…”  _ He starts to protest but there's a lightning storm going on under her lashes and even The Hood wavers at the sight of it.

“Now now my dear,” The man's voice is fine black silk, like he can slither it over the situation and hide all but what he  _ wants _ from view. “Surely you didn’t expect me to bring an  _ antidote _ ?” He laughs, though the sound verges on a little uneasy. “That would be the exact opposite of my intentions here, really. Why would I want to save a  _ Tracy _ ? He provided a minimal distraction, not as well as I had hoped, but not enough to change the plan. The deal now is you give me that Diamond, or this trigger gets pu...”

The Hood is waving the gun around a bit, distracted by his own monologue as Penelope’s high heeled foot comes up, arcing out of nowhere, and she  _ kicks _ it from his fingers. The pistol discharges with a loud  _ bang _ as it hits the floor and, thank goodness it doesn't hit anyone, but there is the sharp sound of a scream further down the corridor in response to the noise.

Well, that sure was  _ one _ way to alert the GDF.

The Hood  _ snarls _ at her, lunging for the gun at the same time Parker does, the pair of them grappling for the advantage. The bald man gets a pointed elbow to the eye socket and holograms crack and ripple with distortion across his skin. There’s a grinding  _ crunch _ -click as the cartridge gets unloaded from the gun by nimble old fingers and The Hood may have hold of the barrel, but the bullets are skidding smoothly across the polished floor to be trapped under a perfectly pointed pink heel.

The Hood curses vehemently enough at this that Parker gets the old urge to reach out and cover Penelope’s ears. Distracted, the older man nearly takes a foot to his own face as the Hood scrambles to his feet, one hand clapped over his eye. Parker hopes he’s given him some nasty bruising there.

“Where’s the  _ diamond _ , Penelope.” The man hisses, very short on patience.

Parker takes the chance to slip round past him, up behind Penelope and to sidle into their compartment to grab his lucky kit bag off the floor, where he left it. The diamond case gets snatched up and stuffed in there along with his tools and  _ necessaries _ .

Sherbet, the little rat, starts barking at him as he does. Penny’s scrap of fluff seems to have deluded itself into believing it's a wolf, with all the noise it's making, and Parker scowling at him doesn’t improve the racket. Out in the corridor a murmur of activity starts as, alerted by the gunshot (and  _ probably _ the barking), GDF officials in uniform begin to poke their heads out of their compartments.

“What’s going on h...?” A young female officer begins to ask. She's got her hair neatly braided over her shoulder and she's armed and ready, looking to Penelope for guidance.

This is when, evidently, the Hood decides the game is probably afoot and turns tail to  _ flee _ .

“Oh no you  _ don’t _ .” Penny tears after him, all but ignoring the poor startled GDF woman who shrinks back into her compartment as the lady in pink barrels past.

The fallen black pistol is a solemn remnant in the corridor as they tear away.

“H’oi, you!” Parker yells at the young uniformed lady, his kit bag in hand, half-in and half-out of John’s compartment, “I need a h’ambulance waitin’ at the next poss’he’ble station stop. John Tracy’s been p'hoisoned.” Without any more explanation to soothe the horrified look on her face, he disappears inside the cabin, sliding the door shut to give them some privacy.

Penelope can look after herself against the Hood, especially as he's disarmed and there's a crowd of GDF personally honing in. Their John needs him more right now.

Parker drops to his knees at the lad’s side. John's face is a concerning shade of grey and his limp fingers don’t so much as twitch as Parker gently lifts them to find the pulse at his wrist.

Slow. Sluggish. Uneven. His breathing has gotten much worse too - thin, hollow and barely there.  _ Damn it all _ . 

“Now Ma’ster John,” Gently he sets the cold hand back down and rummages in his kit bag, checking labels for anything similar to the B12 he needs. “Let’s see if old Nosy Parker can’t help you feel a bit better now...” The diamond case gets discarded on the floor in a pile of other things he just doesn’t need right now. Oh  _ why _ doesn’t he keep this more organised? His favourite lucky hammer seems to have put a big crack in a bottle of tramadol and a strip of chewing gum has soaked it up and made a lot of things  _ sticky. _

Penny’s going to scold him for that. John can scold him too if he likes, as if Parker were one of his little brothers... Just,  _ please let the lad get well enough to do so _ .

A generous 20cc’s of H ydroxocobalamin gets loaded into a syringe and injected into the IV bag and Parker gently massages the liquid through the plastic to ensure it’s well mixed into the saline.

“There we go Master J’hon.” The older man pushes himself up from his knees with a groan as his joints complain at being cramped up like that. “You should be feelin’ a lot b'hetter soon.”  _ Hopefully. _

Rummaging around,  there’s a thermal shock blanket folded into a neat little silver square in the compartment’s medical kit and, as he shakes it out, Parker wonders why he didn’t think to cover the lad with it earlier.

He spreads it smoothly over him, tucking it around that skinny chest and sides but leaving the arm with its IV exposed so he can get to it easily. He checks the oxygen flow and John’s terrible breathing and makes a note of the readings from the Bio Monitor on a piece of crumpled paper he's dug out from his lucky kit with an old pencil. The lad’s skin tone is worryingly pale. Almost translucent, his veins bright blue where they near the surface of his skin. His lips have rapidly taken on a similar shade.

Parker turns up the O2 and moves to gently massage the lad’s limp fingers, knowing full well that they'll be aching from the IV later. He checks his pulse again and finds it still stuttering and  bradycardic.

“‘Ang in there Johnny boy.” He tells him, surprisingly gently for the rough-and-tumble old dodger. “Yer going to be jus’ blinkin’ fine, now aren’t you? Yer brothers will be quite mad at me and our Penny for all this fuss, now whon’t they?”

There’s no response, but then, Parker was hardly expecting one. 

He hopes the GDF have called an ambulance. He hopes Penelope is coping on her own.

He hopes, waiting for any kind of response from the spaceman, that this isn't  _ too little too late. _

  
  



	5. Chapter Five | The Lady In Pink

The Hood had, of course, run for it the moment he sensed he'd lost the upper hand and any chance of getting the diamond's location from her.

It has to be said though that, in pursuit of the villain, the Lady Penelope makes climbing a metal ladder in sharp, pointed little heels look almost effortless. She catches each rung in the junction between heel and sole to boost herself up, blue eyes blazing and her jaw gritted in determination. The Hood hadn’t even thought to close the roofing hatch behind him and so Penny climbs out, a little unsteadily, up onto the top of the train, her skirts flapping around her thighs in the wind of the train speeding through the tunnel. It’s lucky there’s a fair amount of clearance above them so that she can straighten up.

It's not the most stable of things she's ever stood on in five-inch pastel pink Louboutins but Penny is a whirlwind of rage and unstoppable pink skirts. Perfect teeth gritted and blond curls flying about her face like they too are animate with fury.

“You will _ not _ get away with this.” She calls to the despicable man, straining to be heard over the force of the wind, “I shall not simply _ let _ you take his life.” She shouts, “He had nothing to do with this.” The whip of the icy air funnelling past them stings at her eyes, making water pool. “Absolutely _ nothing _.” Her eyes overfill, water streaking backward off her cheeks. “How dare you! You vile little man!”

“Nothing?” The Hood’s laughter is washed into her ears as he turns to face her, his holograms a fractal, flickering shatter pattern across his features, twisting them almost inhumanly into something that curdles Penny's blood with its sinisterness. “Nothing? Why those _ damnable _ Tracy brothers have been plaguing me for _ years _. If the boy is dead, then it’s about time too!” He crows, “Good riddance!”

“No!” Penelope cries, and she’s struck by the sudden, desperate wish that she had brought the man’s gun with her. Panic bubbles up within her, fear for her precarious perch, fear of this man, fear for _ John. “ _ He’s… _ ” _

There’s a _ screeech _ of brakes on the rails and the whole train shudders as it begins gradually to slow, almost knocking the pair of them from their feet with a startled scream from Penny as she goes to her knees just to keep from toppling over the side. They must be nearing a station. Nearing _ help _.

“I’d love to stay and chat.” The man’s voice is like oil on water. Penny just wishes she could _ light it on fire _ as she glares up at him. “But I’m afraid I have places to be. Give my _ condolences _ to those charming Tracy boys. It’s such a shame to... _ lose _ a brother.” His teeth glint white in the darkness and Penny is caught, for a moment, between terror and wondering, analytically, if perhaps the Hood feels some kind of loss for his _ own _ brother.

After all, Kyrano had gone down with Jeff Tracy when…

“Wait!” She yells, but it’s too little too late and the man takes the opportunity to drop over the side of the train and plummet into the darkness. If it were anyone else she’d have thought him crushed by the slowing train, but The Hood is far smarter than that. There must be some kind of exit down there, some kind of vehicle or rescue or backup plan. The carriages are still moving so fast that he would be far behind them by now.

Penelope curses into the wind in a manner Parker would clip her ears for, scrubbing furiously at the dampness of her cheeks with the back of her hand.

She’ll ask the GDF to search the tunnels, but Penelope has a feeling he’ll be long gone by then. 

Right now she has to get down from here.

…

“Parker?” There's a bustle of activity going on in the cabin adjacent to hers as Penny returns. The train had slowed into the next station: somewhere in France if the crowd of _ Service d’Aide Medicale Urgente _ are any indication, “What's going on?”

“Paramedics.” Parker gently takes her upper arm and leads her to the side. "I assume the blighter got h'way milady?"

All she can see of John from the corridor is a pair of brown oxford loafers and their owner's terrifyingly skinny ankles sticking out from under a white sheet, as people in blue and silver uniforms crowd the body.

“John, is he…?” Penny shapes the sounds of the words with little thought to them, her mouth tasting bitter. She gets a flash of ginger hair as one of the paramedics leans over to speak to her colleague for a moment and that little glimpse fills her with dread.

_ He can’t be gone he can’t be... _

“Ma’ster John is h’in good ‘ands.” Parker takes her other arm too, gently turning his ward’s torso to face him. Her head remains stubbornly turned and her eyes fixed and there’s a silent litany of _ oh gods no, please no _ scrambling her brain. “Penelope.” His old fingers massage over her biceps, reassuring. Slowly her eyeline turns to him, wide and worried. “Leave this to them now. Tell me ab’hout the Hood.”

“That wicked man.” Her top lip trembles as the adrenaline rush from her sprint across the train rooftop fades, leaving her feeling washed out and shaky. Some medical machinery bleeps, loud and insistent, from inside John’s compartment and it makes Penny flinch. “He… he jumped down onto the tracks and it was impossible to follow. I’d think the rascal had been killed if not for the fact I doubt we’ll…” She takes a breath, trying to compose herself, to focus, “ever be rid of him.”

Parker just nods, like this was the outcome he expected. They have more important things to worry about right now. Over the top of her head he’s watching the flashing blue lights of the ambulance waiting out on the platform through the window with a terse expression.

“Oh Parker.” His charge’s big blue eyes flutter shut and her forehead falls, warm and weighty, against the side of his shoulder, drawing him back to her. She’s tired. Worn thin by the day and the fear. “John… John doesn’t deserve this.”

“No, Milady. E’does not.” Ol’ Nosey agrees, steadfast, and old fingers wind themselves into her hair, holding her there, gentle and reassuring. “But e’ll be alright. ‘E’s a strong lad, our John. The a’B12 in his sy’his’tem has begun to counter’h’act the, uh cyan’hide. The paramedics’ll do the rest.”

“Which hospital?” She asks softly, guiltily, fully intent on following John all the way there. She’s already thinking of hopping off the train and flagging a taxi down, or perhaps cornering some young GDF recruit and kindly bullying them into giving her a lift. Perhaps they’d even let her ride in the ambulance but there’s Parker to think of and... “And, oh,” Her voice is awash with realisation, “but what am I going to tell his _ brothers _?” 

Parker’s face crinkles sympathetically, giving her arms a final squeeze before letting her go. 

“_Pasteur_ _Hospital_, in Nice. This kinda thing is all in the line of dutee I’m h’fraid.” He tells her, “‘Is brothers’ll understand.”

“John wasn’t even _ on _ duty.” Penny scowls, scrubbing a hand hard over her face. She’s not crying but she feels damn near to it. “I never should have invited him along.”

“Yew couldn’t have known, Milady.” Parker shakes his head softly, eyebrows crinkled. 

“I could have _ suspected _.” She insists.

Breaking away from him she reaches into his lucky kit bag and plucks the Monataè Diamond from its depths, flicking off the pocket lint that's clinging statically to the casing. It’s a mark of just how well she knows Parker that she’d figured out he’d stashed it in there for safekeeping instead of leaving it under her seat. She flicks the latches and the case clicks open with a _ pop _. She runs her fingers over it’s smooth, glassy surface, watching rainbows dance inside the jewel as it's facets refract the light.

It’s deceptively beautiful.

“So much trouble over such an _ awful _ rock.” Penelope sighs, turning the irritatingly perfect crystal over in its case with her little finger as if the secrets to why all this happened might be written on the back.

Her musing is suddenly interrupted by an abrupt, pained sounding retching noise and a loud, worried exclamation from one of the SAMU in John’s compartment. Penelope's heart shoots right up into her throat. The diamond case hits the floor with a _ thunk _, abruptly forgotten.

"John! _ John!?! _" Penny pushes her way past the medical personnel without another thought, ignoring Parker calling after her, to find… "Oh my…"

Said spaceman has been rolled to one side and is unconsciously vomiting the contents of his stomach up into a little cardboard bowl that one of the medics is holding. His eyes are open but they're glassy and unseeing and his skin is still that awful, _ awful _ grey. He’s being held down by another paramedic because of the way he’s shaking like a leaf in a storm and the sight of it, of John helpless and pinned and absolutely unaware, prickles goose-pimples along Penny’s arms.

_ Cyanide poisoning causes seizures. _ She thinks grimly, terrified that that might be what's going on. _ Death. _

"Ah, thiz ees nor-mal." The young French woman holding the bowl looks her sudden guest up and down before explaining, her voice heavily accented. "'E is purgeeng what 'e can of ze toxin from ees system. Eet is, ow you say, ah, reflex? To the emetic drugs. It ees a good sign." She nods, looking reassuringly calm and confident.

Penny knows from experience that _ calm _ is an easy thing to appear when you're in the life-saving line of business. This is probably an ordinary Tuesday to her. Though _ cyanide poisoning _ … perhaps not so ordinary after all. The _ Tracy _ boys are absolutely _ incapable _ of ever doing anything _ ordinary _, oh no.

It takes a few minutes but when he seems to be finished with the induced vomiting the medic wipes John’s lax mouth for him, careful but clinical, before turning to her companions to discuss how to proceed.

"Oh _ John _." Penny falls to her knees in the vacated space by their spaceman’s side before anyone can stop her and, relieved but not completely, she pushes his sweat-slicked hair back from his horribly pale face, her fingers lingering in the damp, clumped stands and her palm pressed to the heat of his forehead. John’s unconscious expression is tense with lines of agony and he doesn’t give any sign of recognising even her presence and Penny suddenly feels sick herself. “Oh darling…” It comes out as not much more than a whisper, her throat clogged with emotion. “I'm so sorry about all this."

"We are go-ing to take eem to, ah, leh 'ôpital now." The paramedic woman passes the strong-smelling bowl calmly off to one of her coworkers and gently takes Penny’s wrist, moving her hand away from John’s face. A few stray strands of hair fall back into place across his forehead and he looks so mussed and unlike his usual perfect, precise self that Penny wants to cry. God, there are just so many _ wires _. “Pl’eeze remain out of le way.”

They’re lifting a wheeled gurney onto the train and Parker takes Penelope aside, firmly away from their work. He keeps a hand strategically on her shoulder as if she might bolt back to John’s side at any moment. He’s picked up the diamond case and collected Sherbet and he presses the little dog into her arms as a distraction while the SAMU work. They get an awful view of John strapped to the board a few minutes later, blurred by a rush of paramedics, white sheets, wires and tubes, as he’s taken off the train.

He’s still unconscious and that doesn’t bode well.

“I should call Scott.” Penny manages thinly, her face pale as Parker leads her outside, the diamond case tucked safely under his arm. They watch John being loaded into the ambulance and it tearing away with a peal of sirens and flashing blue. “Goodness knows how I'm going to break this to the family.”

She shifts her dog into one arm so she has a hand free to flick up her little pink compact. A little shakily Penny dials in the oldest brother’s personal communication code, the one designated to him by John, eons ago. It wouldn’t do to call the main line. What if all his brothers are sat in their living space together? She doesn’t think she can talk to them all at once. She doesn’t want to watch Alan and Gordon and Virgil receive the news. She doesn’t think she could bear to see his dear _ Grandmother _ right now _ . _

She had a duty of care for John Tracy and she’d messed up big time.

Parker lays a supporting hand back on her shoulder. Penelope sends up a silent thanks that he’s always there with her. She doesn’t think she could cope without him now.

  
“Scott, dear, it's Penny.” She reports as the line clicks through, fielded no doubt by John's little AI up in that station of his. “We have,” She starts, wondering how to phrase this one, “well, a _situation_, I suppose.”


	6. Chapter Six | A Situation

“It's Penny.” Her ladyship informs Scott as the line clicks through. “We have,” She starts, wondering how to phrase this one, “well, a  situation , I suppose.”

“I'm out with Thunderbird One in the Alps at the moment Penny,” He lets her know, eyes focused on flying, not her little hologram. He misses her worried expression and the way her fingers loops themselves into anxious knots, balancing the Comm and her dog between them. “I'm surprised Thunderbird Five didn't let you know.” Scott continues, because after all, all situation calls go through Thunderbird Five and Eos is up there keeping an eye on things even if his space-inclined brother is supposed to be in England right now. “There's a missing hiker dangling from a cliff face somewhere round here. Virgil's thinks we can’t be far off finding him, so we can probably be with you in the next half an hour, what's the situation?”

“I called you directly, I… it's John, I'm afraid.” The sharp inhale  that  garners is practically tangible to her and Scott’s eyes flick across to the Comm unit, suddenly worried.

Sherbet, under her arm, picks up on the tension and whines, empathetically, wanting to be put down. Penny does so, watching the pup chase his tail in circles for a moment before she commits to telling Scott the news.

“He's been, well,  poisoned , actually.”

Thunderbird One takes an abrupt, startled dive from the sky as Scott’s hands jerk off the controls and he grabs for the hologram array, pulling it closer to his face.

“ John’s been what?!? ” He blurts out a fraction of a second before Virgil yells ‘ Scott!! What the…?!? Pull up!!’ into their Comm line, noticing One’s sudden plummet toward the rock face. Scott has to take a moment to wrangle with his feelings and the controls to pull his ‘bird sharply up into the air again.

Panting, he takes another second to recover himself.

"Scott! What the hell was…?"

“I got it Virg, I got it. Sorry, hold on a sec.” He flicks his startled brother rather rudely out of the call. “I’m sorry, Penny I… You said J-John’s been what? ” Scott’s now starting tersely ahead, watching the mountain tops fiercely, his teeth gritted. On every side of the view plane it’s just rocks, rocks and more rocks. At this altitude, even the pebbles have attitude. There’s a man out here  somewhere whose taken a nasty fall and need his help, but John could be…

“Poisoned, Scott.” She hates repeating herself while knowing perfectly well he heard her the first time. Penny re-laces her fingers gives them a squeeze. “It was the Hood. John’s had a preliminary antidote and he’s being taken to the  Pasteur Hospital, in Nice, for further treatment.”

“France?” Scott’s eyebrows rise almost to his hairline. “You guys didn’t even manage to make it to  England before you ran into trouble?" He rubs a hand over his eyes, suddenly tired.

Wherever the man is that they’re out to save, he’s hunkered down well enough that they haven’t spotted him yet. The heat scans should find him though. Scott hates ski resort rescues the most. They all do. It reminds them of what happened to their Mother and right now he’s up here in the Alps while his little brother could be...

“Is John going to be ok?” He asks, worrying at his lower lip. “Was he awake?” Penny just shakes her head, solemn.

“Not really, not lucidly. I… I don’t really know how bad it’s going to be. It was cyanide I'm afraid, though no one's quite sure yet how much of it they got him to take."

Scott shakes his head, deeply distressed. One hand comes up to rub his eyes, the gesture weary and worried and she can't help but notice the way his hand is trembling.

“I can't… I’ve got responsibilities right now,” Scott says, “but,  please , just keep an eye on him until I get there, will you? If… If the  worst  happens you’ve got to let me know. Straight away.” He sounds desperate in a way Penny doesn’t think she’s ever heard him. “Let me wrap up this rescue and I’ll fly right there, alright?"

“You can’t just land Thunderbird One in the car park!” Penelope stares at him. “Goodness Scott, whatever next?”

“I don’t care.” The eldest Tracy’s teeth are gritted, concern bleeding through his every syllable. “It’ll cause a scene and the world media will be breathing down our backs but I’ll hover One right over the damn place if that’s what it takes. You just told me my little brother’s been  poisoned .”

Penelope’s heart twists in sympathy.

“Thunderbird Five?” A flick of her Comm links Eos onto the line. “Could you pull me up a satellite view of the  Pasteur  Hospital in Nice, France?” 

“Is John going to be ok?” She asks, as the map blooms itself out over both Penny and Scott’s screens. It’s no surprise she’s been listening in to their Comms. Takes after her…  programmer , that one. 

“We hope so.” Penny can’t lie to her, “I’ll let you know. Or John will himself, best case scenario. Aha!” She jabs her finger into a patch of green on the satellite map. “There’s a large enough field a six minute walk from the Hospital. I’ll get in contact with the Farmer and let them know to expect you and that they’ll be reimbursed for any crops your ridiculous rocket manages to flatten. You’re lucky my French is  absolument superbe, ma chérie. ” 

“Sounds good, oh, hold on Penny,” Scott’s been distracted by something, not even rising to the bait of her calling Thunderbird One  ridiculous. “I’ve got a heat signature that might be our hiker," He tells her, abruptly focused, "I’m gonna have to go EVA for a closer look.” 

Penny has a feeling John would complain about Scott calling his jetpacking around like a hellion  extra vehicular activity but she supposes he’s not technically  wrong.

“FAB Scott.” She agrees, watching him tug the jetpack straps onto his shoulders, already out of his seat. “I’ll keep you updated, let me know your ETA when you have one darling.”

A terse “FAB.” in response is all Penny gets before the rush of wind on the line suggests Scott has leapt out of his rocket plane. It's recipient gone, the call clicks into silence.


	7. Chapter Seven | Lipstick Stain

Even in a taxi they manage to locate a local kennel for Bertie, make it to the Hospital _and_ find John's room before Thunderbird One has the chance to wrap up its mission.

Penelope and a grumbling-about-being-driven-by-a-_stranger_ Parker are given distracted directions from a hapless, rushed-off-his-feet receptionist toward a room on the second floor which they anxiously have to attempt to find unchaperoned. Everyone here seems concerningly busy, as if they've put up _sale_ signs and the public have come flooding in. Understaffed perhaps? Penny bites her lip, chewing on the worry that they could be too busy to give John proper quality care. The lift, which takes ten full minutes and two missed signs to find, is slim silver solace but the ride up is tense and silent and accompanied only by a toothy little old man who has just a few straggly hairs left clinging to his head. He gives them a smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he shuffles out at Chemo.

The corridors of Level Two are clinically grey and ominous and Penny has to pause to compose herself before pushing open the door they've been directed to, with the little plastic plaque that reads _216._

Inside is a scenario The Lady Penelope often has nightmares about. She dreads the fact anything could happen to any of the boys with the dangerous lifestyles they lead but _this_… the fact it's _John_ and that he wasn't even aware of the danger...

Weak hospital lighting, dimmed down low in some kind of facsimile of a peaceful night, illuminates the shape of a bony figure laid out mortuary style, perfectly flat on his back save for the pale presence of a pillow tucked supportively under a ginger head. There's a clinical white sheet tucked neatly around John's narrow chest and a pair of almost identically white, bare arms resting limply atop the covers for easy access to the large IV needle that's taped securely into the back of his right hand. The tubes lead to a hefty bag of clean, good blood hanging from an IV pole along with another bag of, assumedly, some kind of antidote or saline or _something _that's flushing out his system.

The worst part of the scene though, by far, is the _awful_ plastic oxygen tube that's been threaded down the young man's trachea, deep into his chest. It's inflating and deflating his lungs _for him_ with an eerie, inhuman precision that John's poor body has absolutely no control over. Sometimes it's easy to see John Tracy as more machine than man but _this?_ This is so _wrong._

His mouth is slack around the intrusive tube, which is being held in place by blue plastic bracing and two white straps that tighten around the back of his head, digging into the hollows of his cheeks either side and holding his lax jaw immobile. The astronaut's blood pressure and heart rate are displayed on the screen in blinking red and both numbers seem low.

"Oh _John_…" Penny stumbles in her pink heels as she steps towards him, one hand coming up unconsciously to cover her mouth. Her chest _hurts_. She thinks this might be one of the worst things she's ever seen, and the competition on that list is substantial. Perhaps it's made all the worse because she feels like this, haplessly, is all her fault

Parker seems to sense what she's thinking and he squeezes her shoulder, brief and reassuring, before he moves around her into the room. He drags a seat up to John's bed for her, the rubber caps on the bottom of the chair legs squeaking horribly against the polished linoleum floor as he does so. Penny doesn't really seem to notice the noise but she drops thankfully into it and reaches out to grab John's closest hand, mindful of the IV needle taped into the back of it. She sandwiches his fingers between her palms and squeezes reassuringly, like he might, on some level, know she's there.

It doesn't seem to make any visible difference.

There is, at least, slightly more colour in his cheeks than when she'd last seen him. He's still horrifically pale compared to everyone else on the damn planet but he's a lot less _grey_ that he was when they took him away. Penny supposes you don't get much sun exposure behind protective, radiation-shielded borosilicate glass up on a space station so she hopes that that's mostly to blame for her friends complexion.

Besides, she suspects that ginger hair of his would look simply _hideous _with a _tan_. She shoots John a small, amused smile, sneaking a peek at his unaware face from under her eyelashes and trying to picture his skin a soft golden colour. _No, oh no! Not possible. _The clash of orange and orange comes to mind instead though and Penny snorts out a laugh. Oh gosh, no, that'd be _dreadful_, she can't even imagine it.

But then, a lot of things have happened today that Penny would never have imagined.

"I suppose we were lucky it was something so common." In _their _line of work at least.

"We'h might be thuh only people in the bloomin' world oo'd label cyanide poisonin' as _common_, Milady." Parker points out, and she has to laugh at that; the sound high and hollow and tired. Parker places a hand either side of her shoulders on the back of her chair and looms supportively.

"I was scared we'd lost him." Penny admits quietly, once her laughter has calmed into silence. "That the Hood could have taken him away just like..." She trails off, not needing to continue for Parker to know who she means.

Quietly she watches the perfectly even, artificial rise and fall of the cage of John's chest, prompted as it is by machinery. On every automated inhalation his stomach hollows out under the sheet leaving a deep sloping hole where Penny is sure there should be _human_. His last stint in space seems to have affected him badly, but _surely_ this sort of thing happens gradually? How had no one… how had _she_ not noticed how unwell John was starting to look? How little there is to him at the moment?

If there's one thing all the Tracy brothers are bad at, it's _asking for help_. All of them think they can place saving the whole world solely on their own capable shoulders, and it doesn't seem to matter to them if those shoulders are growing weak and space-worn. It's well documented that living in Zero G so often weakens unused muscles, softens bone structure and eases pressure on the heart and organs in a way that's dangerous when that pressure returns as gravity does. John's usually so on top of his calorie precise diet and perfect exercise regime that it's easy to convince themselves that he's fine, that he knows what he's doing, and to forget that he's simply not going to ask for help when he needs it - when things start slipping.

Beside her Parker shakes his head, pulling another chair up and patting a large, warm hand down on John's knee.

"There's never been an'hee conclusive h'evidence that the Hood was responsible for Master Jeff's h'accident." Her old companion gently reminds her, though he believes as well as any of them do that it was no _accident _at all.

Penny sighs loudly and shakes her head, tossing train-tangled curls about her face. She runs her fingers over the soft, smooth skin of the back of John's hand, moving it over the thin blue veins just under the papery surface. She's never noticed quite how long his fingers are before. Looking at them anyone would assume _him _the pianist in the family, not Virgil with his chunky, labour-built hands. But these hands know their way around a holoscreen with more dexterity and competence than anyone ever born, Penelope is quite sure. These hands save lives.

Overcome with something warm and fond and upsetting Penelope leans over and smoothes the hair gently back off John's forehead with her thumb. Looking closely, there's a fine pattern of light freckles across the bridge of his nose, peppered across his cheeks and scattered over his forehead. Long golden ginger eyelashes cast dark shadows over the crest of his cheekbones. His lips, rudely parted by the intrusional tube, are deep pink and slightly bruised.

"Oh, darling…"

Without really thinking about it Penny presses a dry kiss to the warmth of his brow, leaving a soft pink lipstick mark in her wake. Pulling back she almost laughs at the sight of it, even if choked by her own building upset. Oh, he'd be _horrified _to see that in a mirror so she's _absolutely_ going to leave it there for him to find. The Tracy's are just as much brothers to her as her own is, darling John especially. He's so easy to tease and yet, skinny and space tired and so far away from everyone; she also feels protective over him perhaps the most.

"Ah, excuze me?" A middle-aged woman in a white coat with a heavy French Accent interrupts Penny out of her musings. Her eyes are cold and stern and she's got her hair tightly pulled into a brown ponytail and she's wearing small horn-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose. Her expression is sour. "You are ze next of kin?" She seems surprised to see them there.

"Oh? Oh no, we're family friends." Penelope informs her, pulling away from John a little startled. "We were with him when, _well_, when it all happened. His brothers are on their way."

"Not reelations?" Cold eyes narrow, "I will 'av to ask you to wait outside until zey arrive I'm afraid." The woman's nose wrinkles as she squares up to the condensed five foot four of the woman in pink sat before her, "Eet is 'ospital practice. You should not be een 'ere."

"Could you at least tell us how he's doing?" Penny surges from her chair and places herself in the woman's personal space, anxious not to leave. "We could perhaps fill you in on some of his medical history?" She suggests, thinking quickly. "John works as an astronaut, he's only been on Earth for under two days. We think he might have been spending a lot of time in Zero Gravity prior to his descent."

The doctor frowns, looking like Penny has just asked her to suck a lemon, but after a long moment she bobs her head in agreement.

"Zat explains many things," She says, ponderous, and Penny wonders if they're off the hook. "Ee iz a bit, 'ow you say, _fragile_?" She continues, "But eet was a very mild dose, very leetle got into heez blood. Between wone and two milligrams. 'E should make a fool recovery."

"I'm very glad to hear it." Penny almost deflates with relief. She shoots a glance toward John's still form, pink lipstick vivid on his forehead. The pit of worry that's been knotting up her stomach softens, just a little. "What are you treating him with?"

"E' az had a dose of amyl nitrite foll-owed by intraveenous sodeeium nitrite which wheel zen be foll-owed by sodium thiosulfate." The woman says snootily, looking like she doesn't expect Penny to have a _clue_ what she's talking about. People like to talk to Penny as if she possesses not even half the intelligence she does. It's the blond hair and blue eyes she's certain. Usually other women are better than this, but perhaps the good Doctor's English is just lacking, or she's just used to explaining to imbeciles. "Thee aim" The doctor continues, unaware of Penny's frustration, "ees to break ze chemical down into less toxic compounds zat can be eliminated by the bodee."

"And the intubation?" Penelope glances again at the _wrongness_ that is the plastic pipe in John's mouth.

"Wee've got heem on one hundred percent oxeegen as cyanide prevents ze body's tissues from using eet effectively." The woman frowns at them again. "You should bee leaving naow." She makes shooing motions toward the door and Penelope rises from her chair almost on instinct. "Go seet outside now until thee next of kin arrives." She gets ordered, "Yew must not leave thee building. Le gendarme 'ave questions for you."

"The police?" Penny frowns, much more used to having the GDF breathing down their necks than local services. She shoots John one last good look as they're ushered out into the corridor, feeling a sense of betrayal and worry that he shouldn't be left alone. Vulnerable.

"Yees, zis was an attempteed murder, was eet not?"

Penny startles - she hadn't thought of it like that. But still, if this _were _an ordinary situation that seems almost _lenient_ of them. Penny scowls at the door that swings closed behind them. Supposing she _had_ poisoned him? She's certainly capable, though she supposes not many people look past the blond hair and the pink skirts long enough to think so. Sometimes people not taking her seriously is one of her greatest weapons.

She'll have to give Colonel Casey a call to get them off her back. Besides, it's not like they don't _know _who did this. She hopes the GDF has a good French interpreter. John Tracy could have done it but...

Penny sits down heavily in a blue plastic chair, all the fight going out of her at once.

John Tracy isn't available right now.


	8. Chapter 8 | Prescription

It's around twenty minutes before a wild delinquent masquerading as Scott Tracy crashes into the scene, slamming through the door with his hair all over the place and his International Rescue blues rolled down and tied around his waist, revealing the grubby blue t-shirt he has on underneath. He's sweaty and grimy and panting for breath like he just ran two flights of stairs instead of taking the lift. Penny can't help the short, sharp laugh of surprise that escapes her at the sight.

"What?" Scott frowns irritably at her, poised delicately as she is on the edge of her plastic chair. The usually soft upward curve of his hair is littered with escaping strands, like he's been constantly running his fingers through it. "Where's John?"

"My goodness Scott. _Please _tell me Thunderbird One isn't parked on the hospital roof?" Penny asks instead, her nose crinkled. They can probably smell the man in _Paris_. "I know I found you a field but did you not at least think to go home for a shower first? Really Scott, he's not exactly going anywhere, there's no urgency."

"Yeah well, you get a call saying your brother's been hospitalised and we'll see if _you _stop for a shower." He scowls at her, deeply not in the mood and tense as a bow string, all wound up and ready to be fired. Penelope, unfortunately, seems to miss the signs of this as she's caught up in the insult to her own brother.

"_Alexander_ knows far better than to drink a glass of cyanide." She scoffs at him, her arms pointedly folding and one hip jutting contentiously out to the side, offended on his behalf. The younger Creighton Ward sibling may not be quite as savvy as Penelope is when it comes to espionage but he's not _stupid_.

"Yeah, well, John shouldn't have _had _to know." Scott spits right back, after the baffled second it takes to process that. He's taught with pent up frustration and worry and he's unaware of the way his fingers curl into fists.

Their John should be safe, should be 22,400 miles up in orbit where the Hood can't get his... his _dirty_ little fingers on him. Out of all of them John shouldn't be the one in danger and it twists something vicious in Scott's chest to think he was placed in harm's way.

"Why did you even _have _him on that train?" Big brother demands, his hands have started a tremor that rumbles up into his shoulders, shuddering through them, "He could have flown to his _stupid_ lecture. He could have…"

Scott trails off as he notices Penny wincing. She's fully aware that she invited John along just for her own enjoyment and Scott can't help the satisfaction pooling in his belly at her discomfort as he realises this. He'll feel a bit bad about that later, when he stops long enough to think about it.

"I am really very sorry this all happened Scott." Her Ladyship lays a small, finely-manicured hand on his arm, the gesture soft and placating. "If I'd have had any idea this would..."

"I… ack, geez Penny I know." She watches him visibly deflate, the anger draining out of him and leaving only tiredness in its place. In that moment Penelope thinks he looks very much like his Father. "I know I just…" The syllables are laced with apology. "Can I see him?" Scott pleads, ever so soft. "Virgil's on his way with everyone but can I just..."

"Of course you can see him." Penny says, incredibly gently. She gives his arm a little squeeze before letting go. "Just through the double doors, but I should warn you he's…"

He's gone before she can finish her sentence.

"...not in good shape."

…

She gives Scott all of five minutes with his sibling before impatience takes over and she sneaks back in. Big brother is perched, not on the provided chair of course, but on the side of John's bed itself, and he's fiddling with a holopad full of their astronaut's stats with an impressive frown. He seems to have procured it from the little slot at the end of John's bed but he looks like he's having trouble getting into it without a Doctor's passcode.

Penny takes it from him, whips a flash drive full of _useful _code from somewhere handy between her cleavage and takes a second to find a compatible port to plug it in. It's no more than a minute or so to find the right program and run it, and she hands it back moments later, _Access Granted_ glowing in green on the screen.

At least there's s_omething _she can do for him.

"Thanks Pen." Scott gives her a tired smile and sets his fingers to pulling up John's patient information.

Penny takes another good look at John while he's perusing. She's unimpressed that someone, assumedly the Doctor, has tried to wipe her lipstick from John's forehead but she's pleased to see that the pure staying power of _Sisley Hydrating Long Lasting Lipstick_ in shade _L12 _has prevailed and stained an entertaining smudge of pink right across his forehead. Penny shakes her head and digs around in her purse for makeup wipes. Better save the poor lamb from further humiliation - it'd cause more trouble with _Gordon_ that it's worth, for a start.

John's forehead cleaned, with some amusement, Penny settles into the plastic chair that Scott seems to have decided is not worth sitting on. She'd noticed the Doctor had been in once or twice before Scott had arrived and at some point during that time it seems like John's breathing must have improved to the point where he no longer needs the ventilator. It's been replaced instead by a long, thin plastic tube down his nose which seems to be delivering a smaller but still steady quantity of O2 into his lungs without the intrusive mechanised force of the previous machine.

She rests a hand briefly against the side of the young man's ribcage, just taking a moment to absorb the relief of feeling him breathing in and out of his own volition, without any mechanical intervention. It blooms something golden and hopeful in Penny's own chest. She's glad Scott didn't have to see John on the ventilator. It's something that's going to haunt her for a long time yet.

"This chart doesn't have anything useful." Scott, unaware of her thoughts, tosses it down on the bed and it's probably lucky that John's not awake because it hits him somewhere about his knee and Scott winces, guilty. "Oops, sorry J." There's an awkward pause with a lack of response and it doesn't seem to help.

"I'm sure he'll forgive you." Penny shoots the man a warm, tired smile. She picks up the offending item, flicks the power switch off, and tucks it back into its little cubby as if it was never disturbed. "He seems to be doing much better now."

Scot nods in agreement.

"The early stats in there are _garbage_." He complains, because he needs to let all the emotion burning in him out _somehow. "Absolute_ garbage." And not because they're recorded wrong or anything but just because he just doesn't want to believe them.

Scott knows exactly how to read a vital signs monitor, it comes with the job after all, but therefore it makes him perfectly aware of what the horrific data readouts that the paramedics were getting when they first hooked his brother up _could _have meant. There was a holocopy of Parker's scribbled notes in there too and Scott, with the dizzy feeling, like he's just stepped toward a cliff edge, doesn't think he's seen O2 stats like that on anyone who _survived_. Blinking, the eldest Tracy finds his eyelashes damp, his vision swimming, his breathing seizing.

"We… I guess we nearly lost him Pen." Scott chokes out, trying to push past it but struggling. "I can't… I don't think I can even imagine it." The look on his face is so wretched that Penelope can't stand it. "If John was just _gone_, just suddenly like that, I…"

"Then don't, love." She captures Scott's wrist to stop him before the man rambles into his deepest worries, and she gives it a comforting squeeze. He looks up at her, rumpled and distraught, waiting for her to say something further. "Don't think about it too much, ok? John's here and he's in good hands and, huh, you know, there's probably a _reason_ those files are supposed to be confidential." Penny comments, one perfectly arched brow raised.

"_You_ hacked it." He accuses, wiping his eyes graciously on his sleeve of all things before Penny has the chance to offer him a handkerchief.

"Yes, well, I couldn't bear the sight of you struggling with it any further." She sniffs, frowning, but then she glances up at Scott and notices how _miserable_ he looks and takes pity on him. "He'll be alright Scott." She reassures, drawing an aristocratic smile up from the depths of her reserves and has a go at putting it onto her face. She mostly succeeds. "Don't spend too long thinking about _could-have-beens_." Penny rubs a small hand smoothly over his back, between the man's shoulder blades. She's trying to be gentle with him, tactful, though it's a little out of her realm of experience to be so. "He's going to need his big brother to hold it all together when he wakes up. I know your secret Tracy," She nudges him fondly with her hip. "It's your favorite thing to be _needed_ by someone."

"Of course, I..." Scott rolls his shoulders, tilting his head back, his neck long, to stare at the ceiling above them like it might give him all the answers he needs. A ghost of a smile flickers across his face then fades again. "You know," He says, forlorn, "John's up in space so often and I try to make most of the time that he is home, we all do, but it's hard to know how comfortable he is." His shoulders roll again, this time into the shape of a shrug, "I'm sure he gets practically drowned in attention and I'm sure he _hates it_ and just wants to run and hide back up in that space station of his but he's our _brother_ and…"

"Scott." Penny cuts off his rambling again as she senses him going in a direction she doesn't much like, "I can say with absolute certainty that John values being with you boys _just_ as much as you value him being there. He _loves_ you." She points out, a little offended on John's behalf that she'd have to. "He might not be the best as showing it but I _know_ he treasures every second he gets with you boys. He's always had that way of his of being all silent and stoic and seeming unattached when really he's taking it all in and quietly making the most of _everything_. It's, well, it's like in Uni," She smiles, fondly reminiscing on the short semester they spent together at Oxford while John was doing his research placement and swatting up on his Languages ready, he thought at the time, to work aboard the World International Space Station with astronauts from around the world. "I've never seen anyone look so unhappy to be in a full lecture theatre but as soon as Languages are mentioned that boy lights up like a candle. His face is a dead giveaway." Penny laughs, "That's what happens when he's with all of you, you know?" She frees Scott from her grip to curl her fingers through John's limp ones instead, giving them a little squeeze. She's been examining his face fondly and, now she thinks about it, he does look so much more _relaxed _when he's sleeping. It's almost _nice_. "He lights up when he's home. Scott, darling," She tilts her head towards him, "It doesn't take much to love and appreciate your brother. He's one of the most precious friends I have. You _all _are."

Scott nods his head, fully in agreement.

"I'm gonna frog march him to Melbourne Observatory when we get home and I'll book out the whole _damn _place if I have to to make him come with us." Scott makes the pleasant sentiment sound like a threat and Penny laughs again, feeling better herself. "He can ramble as much as he likes about astrophysics things I don't understand just as long as I know he's… he's happy." The pilot stares forlornly at John's lax face. "Sometimes I don't think I know what _happy _looks like on John anymore."

"I think a night on the terrace with his brothers would have much the same effect." Penny prompts him, trying to inject cheerfulness into the sombre mood. "Though perhaps a _family_ trip out after all this isn't such a bad idea. When was the last time you boys took a break? I can coordinate with the GDF and look after things for you for a couple of days I'm sure."

"We don't take breaks, there's always _some _situation that needs us." Scott's developing a dull headache that's throbbing behind his eyes, his fingers come up to pinch the bridge of his nose, massaging.

"Well that j_ust won't do_." Penelope Creighton Ward informs him, in a tone that brokers no arguments, "I prescribe a break for all of you, effective immediately." She's already sweeping away from him, fingers rummaging for her compact. I'll call the GDF and let them know."

"Thanks Pen." The flyboy shoots her a grateful smile and, tentatively, he reaches out to take up John's abandoned hand, trying to hold it like Penny had been. John's fingers feel cold and bony cradled in Scott's and it's a little weird but also sort of _nice_ to be connected to him like this. Scott's aware that if John were awake this wouldn't be happening, but it's not like John's physically present very often and Scott decides his brother will just have to put up with him being clingy for a little while. Penny, meanwhile, is already halfway out the door, chatting away to someone who sounds an awful lot like their Aunt Casey for him.

The silence she leaves behind her is almost startling. The whole room devoid of noise save for the gentle flow of air into the spaceman's lungs and the steady bleep of machinery all around him.

And so Scott waits.


	9. Chapter Nine | Monitored Heartbeats

It's not long after that that Virgil, Gordon, Alan, Kayo _and _their Grandmother all come tumbling into the scene in a spectacular fashion; cascading into the room like a tidal wave has swept them from the corridor. Virgil, the first one at the door, heading the group, does a fantastic job of freezing at the sight of his unconscious brother and the whole party slams into his back like the wave has hit a rock, sending them scattering out around him. Kayo nimbly avoids the disaster and pauses to prevent their Grandmother from tumbling over.

"Virgil!" She scolds him, wrapping both arms around the little old lady to hold her upright as she tries to find her slippered feet, "Geez, be caref..."

Kayo is interrupted by a tiny cry of '_Joooooooohn!'_ as Alan launches himself past her, a streak of yellow hair and red sweater. Before anyone can stop him he's across the room and has his arms tight around his bed-bound brother, his face buried in the sheet that covers him, keening the spaceman's name into his chest.

John doesn't visibly react, remaining still as death, but the way the heart rate monitor picks up, bleeping red on the screen, twists something worried in Scott's chest.

"Whoa, whoa, don't put so much weight on him." He warns, gently pulling the flailing octopus that is their littlest brother back a bit. "Hey, be gentle ok? He's gonna ache like anything when he wakes up, you don't wanna give him bruises or something Allie."

Alan gives a big, wet sniff and nods miserably before he much more cautiously buries his head back into John's warm side. The bleeping calms and Scott sighs and lets him. He _almost_ expects John to sleepily laugh and ruffle their little brother's hair but, of course, no such thing happens. Alan makes a small, wailing noise against the spaceman's ribs instead that, to Scott, feels a lot like someone kicking him in the shins.

"Well? Is he ok?" Gordon pops up at Scott's side, brown eyes wide and worried, locked on their oldest brother for all the answers. "Scott? What have they said?"

"He'll be ok Fishsticks." Scott tries his best to reassure, wishing their Dad were here to do it for him so that _he_ can be reassured too. "John's just got to sleep it off for a bit, alright?"

"Sleep it off! He got _poisoned, _Scott." Gordon shakes his head, his voice thick with upset, "I can't believe he got poisoned. The _one_ time he comes down to Earth, of all the…"

"He's stable." Penny gently interjects with the knowledge gleaned from her own observations, trying to stop the aquanaut's pessimistic rambling in its tracks. "His blood pressure is getting close to the normal range again and his heart rate looks a lot better. His blood oxygen levels have come up as well. He's in no immediate danger now darling."

Gordon nods but he doesn't look particularly convinced.

John is far too old to sleep with a nightlight so they're all kind of confused about what's going on when Gordon fishes out one of their portable hologram units from his pocket and starts to set it up on his brother's bedside table. It's one of the ones John had configured himself, and Scott suddenly gains a clarity of understanding as Gordon flicks it on and the thing starts to display the planet Earth; spinning constantly and glowing a soft, muted blue with data tap points for information on the globe and what's going on in it.

It makes perfect sense, actually. Scott wraps an arm around their aquanaut's shoulders and gives them a squeeze of thanks. John's gonna want to know his world is safe when he wakes up. There's nothing their brother hates more than being disconnected; they all know it not-so-secretly makes him incredibly anxious.

Virgil, meanwhile, has come unstuck from where he'd been rooted by the door and ambles into the room like a lost bear, out of the comfort zone of his forest. He grips the back of Penny's chair, white-knuckled and just _stares_.

"He… he looks _real _bad Scotty." The big man manages, after a long moment. A sweep of Virgil's gaze takes in the shell of his brother, John looking more thin and fragile and unwell that he'd even imagined when Scott had called through to let him know the news. "I've never… _geez…_"

He steps around the chair and cautiously reaches out to runs his fingers ever so lightly across all of John's wiring and machinery, as if working out what everything is and what it's doing for his brother.

He doesn't seem reassured by his discoveries.

"They've not got him on any kind of pain relief." He comments with a scowl, _'Doctor Virgil'_ tendencies taking over. "He's at least going to need something before he wakes up."

"Do you think he'll wake up soon?" Alan pipes up, muffled from where his face is still smushed into John's covers. Kayo settles herself quietly next to him on the corner of John's bed and runs her fingers through Alan's hair, comforting. Her golden eyes look to Virgil for the same answer.

"Hard to say Sprout." Virgil would hate to give him any false hope. The fact the Doctor's haven't given him anything suggests their brother is heavily unconscious and unlikely to wake up any time soon. "Our Johnny's, well, he's... very ill right now." Virgil tries to make it gentle but Alan whines something awful at his statement and clutches at John's sheets anyway, his fists balling in fabric and in the process accidentally tugging them down just enough to expose the sharp ridges of John's collarbones.

"Allie, you're gonna make him cold." Scott scolds, trying to be gentle with their baby brother but oozing worry. He winds his fingers into the duckling down blond fluff of Alan's hair and uses his other hand to pull John's covers back up around his chest, trying to tuck them in neatly and generally making a right hash of it. Someone's evidently, sensibly, removed John's shoes because pale feet and the corresponding bony ankles are now peeking out the other end of the manhandled sheets.

From somewhere behind him Grandma clucks her teeth at his attempts, and she swiftly elbows him out of the way so she can do it for him. She smooths the sheets over her boy's frail chest with the expertise of a woman whose tucked in these boys _thousands_ of times. She makes sure both of his arms are rested neatly either side of him stop the covers, holding them in place.

When she's finished, satisfied her boy is cosy and safe under her tucking, she sways slightly where she's stood, clearly worn out from the anxiety of the whole situation. Penny, swift and gentle, gives up her chair for the boy's Grandmother in less than a loudly-monitored heartbeat, carefully guiding her into it.

From her new seat Ruth reaches out to take her Grandson's hand, clasping it between her own with a low, weary sigh. His fingers are cold from poor circulation and there's a dark bruise beginning to form all around the IV injection site, spilling out from under the bandaging, and it makes her heart hurt. That pale skin of his always did bruise easily and the sight of any of them prone in a hospital bed is getting painfully familiar. She's just so exhausted from the rush and flight over and...

And it doesn't take much more than that for the family matriarch to break down and cry. Silent, quaking little breaths, all uncontrollable and apologetic as she tries to wave her worried boys away.

"Oh _Grandma_." Virgil wraps his arms around her shoulders and holds her tight. "He's gonna be ok. It's not… it's not like _Dad_," he points out, the words tasting bad on his tongue, "at least he's not just vanished..."

His little speech doesn't seem to be helping much and he trails off awkwardly. Virgil doesn't think he's ever seen his Grandma upset like this. Cross, yes, frightened for them, absolutely, but the way her thin old shoulders are shaking and her papery fingers are clutching at John's still ones is unnerving in a whole new way that's about as bad as the whole situation is really.

He's not given much longer to try and comfort her as they're interrupted by a sudden, stern;

"Ah! What eez all zis!" The unflappable French Doctor from earlier has entered the room behind them and is scowling something incredible. "Non! Ceci n'est pas accepteeble!" She declares, "Zer are too manee of you een 'ere. Too loud." She shoos out the closest three, Scott, Penelope and Parker, while the others are left to cluster around John. "Zis is not acceptable." A firm finger waggs itself at Penny and she's too tired to dispute it. "Ee needs good rest. Too much of zis noise could disturb eem."

Personally, Scott thinks he would _love _to disturb John right around now. Anything to see his little brother awake and coherent. Though, he does suspect there could probably be a full-scale brass band in his room at the moment and John wouldn’t budge.

Scott's a little irrationally angry about that. John's _always _the first of them awake. He's never been a light sleeper in his life and since the formation of International Rescue he's had to be up and alert and ready for action the _second_ the alarm goes. Still... Gordon’s pretty much the equivalent of a brass band so Scott supposes they’ll see.

He slumps into a hard blue plastic chair in the corridor waiting area, the fight or flight that's been coursing adrenaline through him since he got that call from Penny draining quickly away, leaving him tired and shaky and miserable. He buries his head in his hands. He hears Penelope perch next to him, followed by a heavier squeak of plastic that suggests Parker's placed himself opposite the pair in an unsettlingly good defensive position.

They sit in silence, lost in their own thoughts, until a heavy sigh from Penny makes him look up.

"It worries me that the Hood is probably still somewhere in this city." She mentions, her gazed fixed to the wall opposite as she cards her fingers through the knots that have formed in her blond curls from being subjected to wind speeds atop a _moving train_. "His objective was the Diamond but… you don't think he'd come here and try to, well, _finish the job_, do you?" She gestures over to the door that John and his bleeping machinery are behind with worried blue eyes.

"Not with us all here." Scott shakes his head solemn, "The Hood wouldn't _dare_." It comes out as almost a threat and Penelope is abruptly reminded that these boys have access to some of the world's most advanced equipment and just how easily they could be _weaponized_. She wouldn't want to be the Hood right now, relying only on the good graces of a man whose brother he just tried to murder.

It's a good thing Scott Tracy has the strong, unfailing moral compass of his Father.

"I hope you're right." Penny knots her fingers into a steeple and delicately rests her chin on them, sighing, "I really hope you're right."

…

"This is just getting weird guys." Gordon comments perhaps an hour or so later, his nose wrinkled. "We can't all just sit around here staring at him." He remembers a little _too_ well what it's like to be the one in the hospital bed, after all, the Hydrofoil accident that cut short his career as an Olympic swimmer had put him in one for months. "John's not gonna want us all hovering like this you know." Which is surprisingly perceptive of him really.

"I'll go see if I can find us all a coffee." Virgil decides, ever practical and already striding across the room. He shoves the big heavy door open and sticks his tousled head out into the corridor, "Coffee?" He offers. Penny looks up at him from under her lashes like she'd rather drink swamp water and Scott doesn't shift.

Virgil frowns.

Big brother has his head in his hands, the heels of them pressed hard against his eyes. He looks exhausted. Positively morose. The presence of the IR suit around Scott's legs reminds Virgil that Thunderbird One had come straight here with no stopping and that big brother is running on far too little energy, food and rest for him to possibly be anywhere near the realm of _ok_. _Right. _Virgil thinks, _That's just unacceptable. _There's nothing he can do about John right now, but there is something he can do about_ this.  
_

"You're coming with." He tells Scott, leaving no room for argument. He hooks his arm under his big brother's and rather forcibly removes him from the uncomfortable plastic chair. Scott goes surprisingly willingly and without comment, though Virg isn't _exactly_ giving him much of an option. _He's definitely in need of some caffeine._ Virgil decides_. Professional medical opinion. _"Anyone else coming with us?" He thinks to ask the group. It'd do most of them good not to just be sat staring. Distraction is the best thing for a person whose all worried and upset. 

"I'm there." Gordon trips up to his side, a small ray of sunshine in this bleak, whitewashed room. "You always get my coffee wrong. Grandma can we get you anything? Kayo? Alan? Penny?" Both Kayo and a miserable looking Alan shake their heads so he tilts his gaze to her ladyship and is rewarded by that delightfully _disgusted_ expression.

"Tea." She insists, feeling a little put out that her usual tea drinking companion amongst this bunch of hooligans is currently far too _unconscious _to back her up. "Parker, would you go with them just to make sure…" She trails off, biting her lip. Penelope doesn't want to make the boys feel like they're in any danger but she also knows that her worry is _likely justified._

"I'll do just that Milady." He pats a firm hand down on her shoulder, full of reassurance, before he "Come on t-hen Masters Tracy." He commands, "Off we go."

"Grandma?" Gordon's head pops back around the door again once he realises they've had no response from the family Matriarch. "Coffee?" Without turning away from John there's a shake of the little old lady's head and Penny purses her lips in protest at that: Ruth should absolutely have _something_ rehydrating, in the very least.

"Make it _two_ teas Gordon darling." She crosses her arms and levels her gaze at him as if promising _terrible things_ if he dares to come back with only one, "And see if you can't find anything worth eating in this godforsaken place. Stay together as a group." Penny adds, not wanting to tempt fate. "You're all too vulnerable alone."

None of them have to question that logic.

It doesn't take long before they return with a recycled cardboard holder full of reusable plastic cups and a box of tiny French pastries that they _must_ have left the building to source. Scott is looking a little better for the exposure to fresh air, his hair lifted by the breeze and the dark circles under his eyes a little less pronounced. He smiles at his Grandmother as he presents her with her tea and one of the daintily filled croissants that he succinctly rescued from the grasp of Gordon, who's currently busy stuffing as many as he can into his mouth _whole_.

Parker hands Penelope her own tea, hot and terrible from the janky vending machine up the hall. It's bitter and cheap tasting and the milk had almost certainly been powdered, but there's nothing quite as comforting as the feeling of pressing a hot cup of tea to your cheek and having the warmth bleed onto your skin.

She wishes she could share the soothing expeirence with John right now.

There's very little change from their spaceman in the next few hours. A nurse comes in several times to add different things to his IV and Alan swears he sees John's fingers wiggle (but Gordon had been wiggling the sheet at the time so none of them are convinced). They're only allowed to sit with him in small groups and, as it draws later into the afternoon, and then the evening, the sour-faced French doctor only gets more and more annoyed with their little party cluttering up her halls.

It's Gordon who suggests they take Grandma out to get some dinner, with a; "Come on, we could all do with some more fresh air" and his arm firmly around Alan's shoulders to steer the miserable kid out of there. He really hopes France has some fast food places because an awful, greasy burger would cheer him _right _up right now.

They leave Scott where he is simply because his anxiety has built into a tempest of an awful mood and he point blank refuses to leave John again. Penny gets left behind too, though that's more because she's fast asleep in the corner with Parker's jacket tucked over her and both high heels kicked from her tired feet. Parker himself offers to stay and keep an eye on the two of them and says he'll comm them if anything changes with John.

Virgil promises to bring the three of them something to eat and Scott nods solemnly, watching them leave. He can hear them arguing all the way down the corridor and there's a snort of fond amusement that escapes him at that, but the silence is quick to settle in again, leaving the room cold and silent save for the soft, continuous bleeping of the machinery around his brother.

He'd have thought John would have woken up by now. To be awake and at least well enough to load into a Thunderbird to take him _home_. Scott wasn't expecting him to be out of it for so long. He worries, for a fleeting moment full of a terrible fear, as he watches John's pale, empty face, if his brother will even wake up _at all._

Surely John's more resilient than that.

_Right?_


	10. Chapter 10 | Acid Blood

John, his awareness gradually rising from somewhere dark and quiet, spends several minutes struggling to connect his blurry, strung-out consciousness with the real physical world around him.

He’s lying on a bed, for a start. At least, he's pretty _ sure _ that it’s a bed. _ Probably _ . Bed is the best educated guess he has, though it’s absolutely not his own. His oh-so-great powers deduction help him work out that he’s definitely both horizontal and on _ Earth _because there’s something solid but fabric-soft at his back and the crushing, insistent pressure of gravity is pushing him down hard against it.

_ Oh yeah, definitely good old Earth. _

It’s not simply the damn _ gravity _ that gives it away; it’s the literal weight of the atmosphere on his chest, the extra 5.15×1018 kg of pressure leadening his bones and airways. There’s a heaviness of hydrostatic pressure caused by the weight of simply the _ air _ he’s breathing. _ Or trying to. _ The thickness of oxygen that’s not canned and processed chokes up his lungs, leaving his chest shuddering and thin and achy.

As he lies there, trying to get enough oxygen into his lungs so that it doesn’t _ hurt _ , he vaguely becomes aware of other strange sensations. He can hear an odd _ beeping _and the air smells chemically and clean, almost like…antiseptic? Shifting a bit, John realizes that his right hand is immobilized - there’s a sharp pain in the back of it that flares when he tries to shift his wrist and, in response, something tightens around his fingers like a startled crab closing its pincers.

He manages a sort-of snort of laughter, though it’s a weird little choked noise that escapes him, at the thought of _ crustaceans _dangling from his fingertips. It reminds him of Gordon. 

"John?” There’s a tentative, familiar voice that he just can’t _ quite _ place. It sounds like it’s far away and right next to him all at the same time; as if it’s travelling to him from underwater. The underwater voice isn’t Gordon though but… uh... Scott...? _ Maybe? _ “Hey,” The voice sounds absurdly gentle, “You waking up there, little bro?”

_ Oh yeah, that aura of worry is definitely Scott _ . John thinks, bleary. _ What’ve I gone and done to set him off now? _

He wants to ask for five more minutes in bed but the thick fog around his senses doesn’t seem to want to let him. Said fog seems to extend from his faculties into the physical world because it feels like his lungs are literally full of the stuff too, his chest still straining to get enough oxygen through it. Had something big and heavy _ landed _ on him? He wonders. _ Seems like a ridiculous place to park Thunderbird Two. _

The last thing John remembers, the memory fogged and distant like it’s sunken in a deep pool of water and each ripple on the surface distorts and blurs it, is being sat in a small, pleasant compartment on a train bound for England… _ What had…? _

Something bleeps loudly nearby and John flinches, provoking a dramatic inhale from what _ must _have been Scott. 

"John?" The warm sensation of _oh, those must be Scott’s_ _fingers, _curling around his own startles him. _No wonder his hand felt trapped. _

The spaceman tries to crack his eyes open but the light is painfully bright and his lashes too heavy, the lids feeling gummy and stuck together. He tries to lift his arm to rub at them but his whole arm is so heavy, the movement so like trying to force the limb through a thick soup, or maybe treacle, that he assumes nothing happens at all until:

"Hey!" The warm sensation of fingers curling tight around his own startles him, "I just saw his fingers move! Johnny? You awake? Can you do that again?"

It takes him a slow, sluggish moment to place the voice as Scott’s again and the rush of reassurance that comes with realising his sibling is still with him is so surprising that Scott has almost given up by the time John remembers he was supposed to be wriggling his fingers.

There’s a sigh from somewhere above him and the fingers let go. John, panicked, tries his best to grasp after Scott’s retreating hand, to give his brother's digits a good, strong squeeze but all his contracting muscles defy him and all his fingers manage is a fairly pathetic spasm. 

"He _ is _ awake!" It seems to be enough for Scott though and John's nose wrinkles, eyes screwing up, at just how _ noisy _ he is. "Oops, sorry Johnno, too loud?"

John tries his best to nod, his head flopping around like a ragdoll, or a puppet with its string cut. It'd almost be comical if it weren't so frustrating. 

_ What's wrong with him? _

Scott’s hand comes back out of nowhere, sudden fingers tangling through the curl of John’s bangs as big brother presses a palm against their spaceman’s forehead. John gets a blurred, vague impression of his brother’s concerned face peering into his own with a tight-lipped frown; Scott obviously trying to gauge how bad he’s feeling. The frown deepens as he finds John’s skin dry and a little hot; feverish. He reaches down to take one of his brother’s hands again and finds his fingers, in reverse, cool and clammy. Poor circulation _ is _a classic astronaut symptom, but the heat of John’s face has become worryingly febrile, the skin flushed. Scott checks the readouts and finds his brother has a surface temperature of 99.7° F and that his pulse has become stuttery and tachycardic.

“John?” Worry builds like a blockage in big brother’s throat. “Hey, you with me? … He feels too hot,” Scott comments to someone else, his thumb swiping a soft pattern over the dry, heated skin of his sibling’s forehead, “What’s going on?”

For John any reply is lost as the pain, which previously had been a slow creeping thing, suddenly makes itself known full force. Distantly, perhaps disconnectedly, the spaceman decides it feels like someone has switched his blood for battery acid. He’s very lightheaded even though he’s lying down and that strikes him, on some cognitive level, as _ not right _ . He can feel every heartbeat throb too hard, too _ big _, in his chest, the stressed motion pressing against his abused lungs. It's a bizarre sensation and hard not to focus on, even though worrying about it only seems to speed the pounding up and leaves John even more short of breath. His fingers are shaking like he's just come down from the biggest adrenaline rush of his life. His eyesight blurs and whirls like a merry-go-round. 

Unable to stand it, squeezes his eyes tightly shut, intending to keep them like that just until it goes away; only the darkness starts to creep back in all around him like a spill of Indian ink seeping into wet paper. White dots dance on the backs of his eyelids in dizzying, complex patterns and the spaceman’s breathing hitches. He vaguely hears a machine scream and Scott yell his name, panicked, but it seems almost… _ inconsequential? _ The phosphenes almost look pretty. Sort of like their own like fractal galaxies... if only the stars were where they were supposed to be. He should just rest for a moment...

He doesn’t realise that that moment ends up constituting _ hours _. 

...

“John? John, darling, can you hear me?” Awareness seeps back to John’s consciousness with the soft, comforting smell of leather, cedar and sandalwood. It reminds him of his Father somehow, only not _ quite _, it's not quite right, it's more like...

“Thas it lad.”

Ah, _ Parker’s _ jacket smells like that. Must be Parker. That places the softer, higher voice as Penelope and that’s… oddly comforting with how honestly _ terrible _ John realises he’s feeling right now.

Even with his eyes closed he's got that classic, whirling vertigo feeling that’s typical of a recent pressure shift between space and Earth and his bones feel achy in a way that suggests he needs to spend a few hours in the gym getting them back up to their normal density after his last stint in orbit. He feels… stringy. Stringy in a way that suggests he’s in the process of losing muscle mass but also stringy in a… a different way. Like he’s been pulled out thin, run under a roller, had his veins pumped full of some kind of jellifying elastic. Brains had invented a jelly-like elastic once and it had caused havoc when...

“Parker, I think he’s coming back around.” John’s bleary, wandering thought processes get interrupted. “Could you go get someone for us?”

“Absolutely Milady.” 

There’s a quick rustle of fabric and the comforting smell drifts away. John’s hazy attention is drawn instead to the way his mouth tastes _ terrible _ . There’s something acidic and foul coating his teeth and burning at the back of his throat. _ Had he been sick? He doesn’t remember being sick. _

“John?” That’s a different voice. Scott. _ Again? _ John vaguely remembers talking to Scott the last time he’d been awake, _ which was… _ actually John has no idea _ when _that was, now he thinks about it through the tired, achy haze smothering his senses in cotton wool.

Trying to open his eyes is a struggle. His lashes feel gummed together, and he underestimates just how heavy his limbs feel as he tries to raise his left hand (his right one seems to be caught in something) to wipe at them. There’s a warm, high laugh and something catches the arm that’s flopping around like a wet noodle and gently lays it back down.

“What is it John?” A small, cool hand, _ Penny _ , meets his cheek. “Your eyes?” The pad of her thumb gently cleans his lashes, rubbing away the sticky residue until the spaceman’s eyes are able to flutter themselves open. Head lolling so that he can peer around, John takes a second to place the white walls and sterile equipment of his location as a hospital room. Glancing down at himself, he takes in the wires trailing toward his body and the pale sheets covering him and the papery green gown _ someone’s _ put him in beneath it. It’s clammy and cold where a layer of dried sweat clings grossly to his skin, sucking the heat out of him like a particularly icy vampire. Turning to his right he finds a very familiar figure sitting in a chair next to his bed.

"S...cbrt?" There’s a butchered attempt at a whisper of his brother’s name around his dry throat and the 9.807 m/s² of gravity that’s weighing heavy on his tongue. Everything is blurred and white and he’s never known gravity to make his body feel _ this _ heavy. It’s as if he could be absorbed straight down into the mattress below him. He’s got a vague awareness that sometime earlier he’d felt burning hot but now cold tremors are seeping through his goose-pimpled skin and right into his bones, rattling them.

A curtain of blond hair falls across John’s line of sight, accompanied by a soft, rosy scent and it confuses him for a long moment until he works out it's just the Lady Penelope still, who's literally perched on the side of his bed. John’s lips are tingling; his hands and feet feel far away. He feels like he's been dunked in ice water. 

"Welcome back darling." She smooths wayward stands of fiery hair back from his face with a gentle smile. _ Never has someone's hair more defied their personality _, Penny thinks, entertained by this. Even in a temper, John is more prone to silent rage than fiery outbursts. She can't deny it suits him though. It takes something individually _John_ away from him to imagine him as a brunette or, god forbid, a _blond _like his scrappy younger brothers.

John’s tries to speak again, to reply, but his tongue feels all swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. His trachea is sore all the way down into his chest, his lungs aching, so instead of stringing together anything coherent all he manages is a slurred; “_Hurrblurblur _?” That has Scott breaking out into untamed, surprised laughter.

“Excuse me?” Big brother snorts, pulling himself up from his chair and shuffling closer as John frowns blearily up at him, his nose all crinkled. “English Johnny, _ English_. Not all of us speak _ alien_, remember?”

Penny _ tsks _ at the elder brother and rolls her eyes. 

“John, darling, here, try some water,” she offers. Parker had gone out and purchased the bottled kind personally, there’s no chance of contaminants in _ this _ glass. All the same, she takes a sip first, analysing, _ just in case _. Gently she takes the young man’s chin and presents him with the straw by resting it against his lips.

John drinks with a struggle; all choppy and gulping and coughing roughly as his lungs panic and try to take in more air but find only water. His throat feels like it’s been lined with sandpaper, scraped raw and red, but he feels thirsty enough to have been wandering a desert for days so he does his best to keep going even though half of it comes out of his mouth again as he splutters, beads of water rolling down the sides of his face and soaking into his pillow. There’s a bit of a particularly bad choke and a splutter and John makes a soft little pained noise that tugs at Penny’s heart as she takes the straw away.

“Shh, John it’s alright. You can have some more in a little bit.” Penny lays a dainty hand against his water-damp cheek and smooths very light circles there with her thumb. “Hush now darling.”

John’s pained little hiccups taper off and Scott awkwardly pats his brother’s shoulder. He can't miss the way his brother is shaking, John’s muscles trembly and tense beneath his fingers - Scott hopes that’s at least better than the _ awful _ overheating earlier. He’s not going to forget the sight of his unconscious brother seizing any time soon. 

“Sorry Johnno.” Scott feels like he’s been apologising a lot to the spaceman lately, though John’s not exactly been conscious for most of them so Scott’s not even sure they count. John’s still staring at him all confused though, so who knows if his point even makes it across.

“Wh’rt happen’rd?” John manages weakly, running his swollen tongue over his weird-tasting teeth and blinking blearily at the bright halogen lights of the hospital room. His chest feels too tight, abnormally so, like someone’s gone and looped fifty rubber bands around his ribcage and they're squeezing him in. “M’lecture?” He asks, breathlessly, and he even manages to look annoyed when Penelope laughs at him because of _ course _ that damn lecture of his would be his first thought. “Whassa t’me? ‘M ‘posed to be…” He makes a struggle to sit up, but she swoops in with a hand on his chest to gently push him back.

“I’m afraid you’ve missed it darling.” She smooths calming circles onto the front of the papery hospital gown, until John’s tense muscles relax again. “We had rather the dramatic turn of events on the train.”

“You got poisoned.” John blinks blearily upward at Scott, who’s hovering at the side of his bed, arms folded and his hair astray. Now he thinks about it, Scott looks exhausted.

“I… nngh, wh’t?” John blinks confused at his brother, his eyes not focused quite right and his pupils blown wide in a way that’s probably a result of the drugs in his system. Penny rolls her eyes.

“Really now Scott,” she looks sharply at him, “I was trying to be tactful.”

John’s head is pounding. He feels like someone has hollowed him out, leaving nothing but a shell as thin and brittle as an egg. A low groan escapes him and he doesn’t like the startled, worried look that comes across Scott’s face at the sound of it.

“M’s’oohk.” He tries to reassure but even John’s not convinced that was very convincing. Pain is creeping up his spine from somewhere deep inside him, pooling in his stomach and lungs like it’s trying to drown him. The column of John’s throat looks pale and exposed and unnervingly vulnerable as his head lolls to the side, the spaceman unable to support its weight to turn and look between them.

“John, how much do you remember?” Her Ladyship asks, her fingers cool against his cheek as she taps it to try and attract his attention. “From the train?” 

“I… my head hurt.” He tries to summon up the memory of why, his voice rough and dissonant. “My chest…” His own thin fingers ghost over the shape of his lungs, bunching in the papery gown as he does as if he’s not quite able to judge the distance between his hand and himself. “I was dizzy… like vertigo. My inner ear was all over the place, it’s not used to gravity. I... I remember I needed some water and there was a man…” John’s face crinkles, “I… I the water didn’t taste right...” His eyes widen, realising that something _ very _ wrong had happened. There's a low, painful burn in his ribcage on every inhalation that John studiously has been trying to ignore, as he tries his best to remember what had happened. “What…?”

“Ah, yew are correct, e’is awake.” Suddenly, there’s a woman he doesn’t recognise in his field of vision. John's heart rate visibly picks up on the screen. Scott’s hand slips from his as he moves away to give the mystery woman room. John whines lowly at the loss of contact. She’s muttering to herself, in what John’s sluggish brain takes a moment to realise is French.

“Qui ê-êtes vous?” He tries to ask who she is, feeling as if he’s talking through a thick wad of cotton wool stuffed into his lungs, choking him. She doesn’t answer him and instead goes to fuss with the IV tube to his hand and everything starts to get heavy and panic flares hot and red in his chest, igniting the wool there and turning his breathing into a series of sharp, stuttered gasps. “Q-Qu'est-ce que t-tu fais!?!” He tries to twist away from her, fingers of his spare hand scrabbling for the IV line in his hand, trying to pull it out, but his digits feel like they’re stuffed sausage-meat style into an invisible glove, rendering them fumbling and heavy and useless as any sensation from the outer layer of his skin fails to register properly in his brain.

“Whoa, whoa! John!” A big, warm hand flattens his rubbery fingers, preventing their panicked attempts. “Easy there, hey, what’s all this?” John’s vision has gone cloudy and blurred and the big, shadowy figure leaning over him only instils more panic. “What did you…? A _ sedative? _ ” John’s thoughts flash to a figure with equally short-cropped brown hair, and the serving uniform the man is wearing confuses him. Reality blurs, tasting sickly. John struggles weakly against the man’s grip, his mouth hanging open to desperately suck in more air but no sound coming out. His whole chest _ burns _ . There’s a thick fog wrapping around his brain, dragging him into paralysis and it’s _ terrifying _ . “Oh John, it’s ok, just sleep now, yeah?” The man doesn’t have the mustache any more. John had thought that was odd, _ he’d thought _… “Things will be much better when you wake up again, alright?”

The darkness pulls him under slowly, helplessly, like his lungs are filling with liquid and he’s drowning. John Tracy goes limp and boneless and Scott wheels on the Doctor, fury sparking like flint and tinder in the air between them.

“Why did you do _ that!?! _” He demands of the woman, who shrinks back from him, eyes wide. Scott can feel his whole body trembling with rage. “Why did he react like that? Why did you put him out again!??”

She says something in French that completely goes over Scott’s head and it’s fortunate that Penny gently interjects herself into the situation by curling a small but strong hand around the hot-headed man’s bicep and placing herself between the two of them. 

“Scott that’s enough,” Penny is cool water to Scott’s fire, “She’s just doing her job. He… John was in _ pain _.” She points out with some difficulty. “Je suis tellement désolé.” She apologises to the Doctor. The woman might be stern and rude, but she was taking the best care of their John that she could. “My friend here wasn’t thinking clearly.” 

Scott mutters something very rude under his breath and Penny gives his bicep a sharp squeeze, her fingernails digging in until he gets the point. Parker, who’d returned when he brought the Doctor to the room, regards him a little guilty from behind her.

“Yes, _ sorry _ .” He says through gritted teeth, tension strung through his shoulders like a rubber band about to be snapped. “I just don’t like seeing people sedating _ my brother _with no warning.” It’s still more accusation than apology but Penelope supposes it will have to do. “I… thought we’d have him with us a bit longer this time.” He deflates. 

Penny leads Scott back over to sit with John, giving the shell-shocked Doctor a small smile on the way. The woman evidently takes this as a cue to get the hell out of dodge because she’s gone when Penny next looks up.

Scott folds himself into the plastic chair with a heavy sigh, taking up John’s limp hand once more and frowning stubbornly at the fine pattern of lines that criss-cross the back of it, making up his brother’s skin texture. There's a line of blood leaking from the needle puncture of the IV line that he didn't notice before and, looking around and failing to find anything practical to mop it up with he settles for dabbing gently at the sticky skin with the corner of John's bedsheet. Of _ course _ the Doctor hadn't noticed it. _ What a hack _. Scott scowls.

But then…. _ Ugh _ , he supposed he'd not given her a chance to. That famous Tracy quick temper is a little _ too _ good at landing them in trouble sometimes. Scott has no idea how John seems to have completely missed out on it.

John's too much like their Mother, he supposes.

“John would be real mad at me for yelling at his Doctor.” Scott says, a few minutes later. Now that the pounding of his pulse has calmed and the rage shaking him apart has dissipated, the eldest Tracy is just left with the guilt. “He’s always telling me I should think before I speak.”

Penny shakes her head at him, absolutely not denying it.

“It’s not worth worrying over it now.” She says, gently resting a small hand against his shoulder. “What’s done is done, darling...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this took me a little while to update, have been working on at least four other things at the same time and I've found that when all the action is done, I struggle to write a bridge between the hurty bits and the soft caring family times after. Big thanks to @ha-tep for Beta reading this over for me and being reassuring and lovely. If you guys could drop me a comment and let me know how this chapter came out and what you'd like to see happen (I've got ideas but i'd love to know what you guys think) that'd be great because i'm permanently very uncertain <3333 xx


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